I.
The Burial of the Dead
April
is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs
out of the dead land, mixing
Memory
and desire, stirring
Dull
roots with spring rain.
Winter
kept us warm, covering
Earth
in forgetful snow, feeding
A
little life with dried tubers.
Summer
surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With
a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And
went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And
drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin
gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And
when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My
cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And
I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie,
hold on tight. And down we went.
In
the mountains, there you feel free.
I
read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
