Classic Poem

Baskets of ripe fruit in air
The bird-songs seem, suspended where

Between the hairy leaves trills dew,
All tasting of fresh green anew.

Ma'am, I've heard your laughter flare
Through your waspish-gilded hair:
Feathered masks,
Pots of peas,
Janus asks
Naught of these.
Creaking water
Brightly stripèd,
Now, I've caught her—
Shrieking biped.
Flute sounds jump
And turn together,
Changing clumps
Of glassy feather.
In among the
Pots of peas
Naiad changes—
Quick as these.