The Morning Glory

The morning glory climbs above my head,

Pale flowers of white and purple, blue and red.

    I am disquieted.

 

Down in the withered grasses something stirred;

I thought it was his footfall that I heard.

    Then a grasshopper chirred.

 

I climbed the hill just as the new moon showed,

I saw him coming on the southern road.

    My heart lays down its load.