For Amy Lowell

AND I had put that evening by
To think of on the day she’d die:
How thus she went, and this she said —
To think of that when she was dead:
To hear her words that day again,
Electric words like August when
The wind shifts,
pelting words like rain
That quickens on the windowpane
And makes the wet world seem to spill
In tilting ruin down the sill,
Words that careened across the sky
The way the seaward winds go by
Towering their canvas in the sun,
Words thick as leaves, words one by one
And perfect as the single moon;
And now — so short a time — so soon —
And I remember yet the clear
Speech — her speaking —
now I hear
Beneath the dead leaves on this distant hill
Only how very still it is — how still.