By AMY LOWELL
A ladder sticking up at the open window,
The top of an old ladder;
And all of Summer is there.
Great waves and tufts of wisteria surge across
And a thin, belated blossom
Jerks up and down in the sunlight;
Purple translucence against the blue sky.
“Tie back this branch,” I say,
But my hands are sticky with leaves,
And my nostrils widen to the smell of crushed green.
The ladder moves uneasily at the open window,
And I call to the man beneath,
“Tie back that branch.”
There is a ladder leaning against the window-sill,
And a mutter of thunder in the air.