b'The iron whine rises on rising speed;Still risen, faints; halts;The faint stinging bell;Rises again, still fainter;Fainting, lifting lifts,Faints foregone;Forgotten.Now is the night one blue dew;Now is the night one blue dewMy father has drained,He has coiled the hose.Low on the length of lawns,A frailing of fire who breathes.Parents on porches:Rock and rock.From damp strings morning glories hang their ancient faces.The dry and exalted noise of the locusts from all the airAt once enchants my eardrums.On the rough wet grassOf the backyardMy father and mother have spread quiltsWe all lie there, my mother, my father, my uncle, my aunt,And I too am lying there.They are not talking much, and the talk is quiet,Of nothing in particular,Of nothing at all.The stars are wide and alive,They seem each like a smileOf great sweetness,And they seem very near.All my people are larger bodies than mine,With voices gentle and meaninglessLike the voices of sleeping birds.One is an artist, he is living at home.continued'