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The gallant Youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a "winsome Marrow," Was but an Infant in the lap When first I looked on Yarrow; Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate Long left without a warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, Great Minstrel of the Border! Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, Their dignity installing In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves Were on the bough, or falling; But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed- The forest to embolden; Reddened the fiery hues, and shot Transparence through the golden. For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on In foamy agitation; And slept in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation: No public and no private care The freeborn mind enthralling, We made a day of happy hours, Our happy days recalling. Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth, With freaks of graceful folly,- Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, Her Night not melancholy; Past, present, future, all appeared In harmony united, Like guests that meet, and some from far, By cordial love invited. And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging, Did meet us with unaltered face, Though we were changed and changing; If, then, some natural shadows spread Our inward prospect over, The soul's deep valley was not slow Its brightness to recover. Eternal blessings on the Muse, And her divine employment! The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons For hope and calm enjoyment; Albeit sickness, lingering yet, Has o'er their pillow brooded; And Care waylays their steps-a Sprite Not easily eluded. For thee, O Scott! compelled to change Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes; And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot For mild Sorrento's breezy waves; May classic Fancy, linking With native Fancy her fresh aid, Preserve thy heart from sinking! Oh! while they minister to thee, Each vying with the other, May Health return to mellow Age With Strength, her venturous brother; And Tiber, and each brook and rill Renowned in song and story, With unimagined beauty shine, Nor lose one ray of glory! For Thou, upon a hundred streams, By tales of love and sorrow, Of faithful love, undaunted truth Hast shed the power of Yarrow; And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, Wherever they invite Thee, At parent Nature's grateful call, With gladness must requite Thee. A gracious welcome shall be thine, Such looks of love and honour As thy own Yarrow gave to me When first I gazed upon her; Beheld what I had feared to see, Unwilling to surrender Dreams treasured up from early days, The holy and the tender. And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer, Did no responsive harp, no pen, Memorial tribute offer? Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice That hourly speaks within us? Nor deem that localized Romance Plays false with our affections; Unsanctifies our tears-made sport For fanciful dejections: Ah, no! the visions of the past Sustain the heart in feeling Life as she is-our changeful Life, With friends and kindred dealing. Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day In Yarrow's groves were centred; Who through the silent portal arch Of mouldering Newark entered; And clomb the winding stair that once Too timidly was mounted By the "last Minstrel,"(not the last!) Ere he his Tale recounted. Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream! Fulfil thy pensive duty, Well pleased that future Bards should chant For simple hearts thy beauty; To dream-light dear while yet unseen, Dear to the common sunshine, And dearer still, as now I feel, To memory's shadowy moonshine!

From Stirling castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled; Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, And with the Tweed had travelled; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my " winsome Marrow ," "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow." "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, Who have been buying, selling, Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; Each maiden to her dwelling! On Yarrow's banks let her herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! But we will downward with the Tweed Nor turn aside to Yarrow. "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus; There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow: Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow? "What's Yarrow but a river bare, That glides the dark hills under? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder." —Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; My True-love sighed for sorrow; And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow! "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path, and open Strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow, The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow! We will not see them; will not go, To-day, nor yet to-morrow; Enough if in our hearts we know There's such a place as Yarrow. "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it: We have a vision of our own; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, We'll keep them, winsome Marrow! For when we'er there, although 'tis fair, 'Twill be another Yarrow! "If Care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly,— Should we be loth to stir from home, And yet be melancholy; Should life be dull, and spirits low, 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow!"

And is this—Yarrow?—This the stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why?—a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness; Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding: And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning, The Water-wraith ascended thrice— And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy Lovers, The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers: And Pity sanctifies the Verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow! But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation: Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy; The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy. That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature; And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a Ruin hoary! The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story. Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in; For manhood to enjoy his strength; And age to wear away in! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of tender thoughts, that nestle there— The brood of chaste affection. How sweet, on this autumnal day, The wild-wood fruits to gather, And on my True-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather! And what if I enwreathed my own! 'Twere no offence to reason; The sober Hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season. I see—but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; A ray of fancy still survives— Her sunshine plays upon thee! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Accordant to the measure. The vapours linger round the Heights, They melt, and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine— Sad thought, which I would banish, But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me—to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow.

i was born at the rupture the root where i split from my parallel self  i split from the girl i also could have been & her name / easy / i know the story all her life / my mother wanted a girl named for a flower whose oil scents all our mothers / petals wrung for their perfume i was planted land became ocean became land anew its shape refusing root in my fallow mouth cleaving my life neatly & my name / taken from a dead woman to remember / to fill an aperture with cut jasmine in a bowl our longing our mothers’ wilting garlands hanging from our necks

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care? Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days, When my fause love was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate. Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon To see the wood-bine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Frae aff its thorny tree; And my fause luver staw my rose But left the thorn wi' me.

It was winter. The opposite of burning, which is also burning. My banner displayed clock parts, a cup of wine, a worm eating its opposite head. My motto was Try to Be Responsible, but every new moon was a sacrificial moon. Thirteen paving slabs were flipped into the river. The extra light of spring threw our business into relief. My banner displayed a sunburst, a bloodied hand dropping a knife, and in the other hand an avocado withholding its stone. War would soon come but not for us, and this became our motto,Not for Us. Then a crime in our community led to anger. Gossip gathered the truth into a ball; paperwork was spoiled; a man was removed from the yellow light of the barn. We heard his sobs coming from the orchard, and these were a source of comfort. Summer roused lanterns of dust under doorways, though a vinegar taste kept the air difficult. Antifa angels bathed their eyes in milk, as horses refused riders. The timid among us signed petitions swearing that when the time came we would know it by the rocks in our hands. I made a banner for the protests to come depicting the planting of milk teeth, the burning of a noose, a stadium left empty. Autumn was just my luck. I could not stomach the broth I boiled, and slept badly. Arguments I won in my head lost direction when formed out loud. The riots continued but quietly now, indoors. It was a time for manifestos, though the wrongs were too many for anything less than a lake. Friends kept the counsel of friends. In the yellow light of the barn we tried to write sentences each other would like, or not desire to alter. Together we designed a quilt depicting the wolf taking scent, water moving quickly, the sign of the errant cloud and alphabet, a baby resisting sleep, a worm eating its opposite head, only this time surrounded by snow, which hasn’t stopped falling since Thursday, the name we gave to our child.

I ask your doctor of infectious disease if she's read Williams   he cured sick babies I tell her and begin describing spring and all   she's looking at the wall now the floor   now your chart now the door   never heard of him she says but I can't stop explaining how important this is I need to know your doctor believes in the tenacity of nature to endure   I'm past his heart attack   his strokes   and now as if etching the tombstone myself   I find I can't remember the date he died or even the year   of what now are we the pure products   and what does that even mean   pure   isn't it obvious   we are each our own culture alive with the virus that's waiting to unmake us

Two flags nuzzle each other in the desultory gust because they are fleeing the trees, who are cruel to one another, shading their neighbors to death a mixed bag advocating small business in a loose confederation. The flags don’t give any shade at all. On the anniversary of our country we throw dynamite at the air we build into. * Daylight savings. A beeline to a sea lion, as the children’s song extols, or is it a beeline to a scallion? You hear your own accent— or a child makes an error to see if you’re listening. A heartfelt counterfeit. * A cough muffled in its own sputum’s repeated in the next throat: a family of coughs comes to couch in us while the sun rises over the church, treetops’ psych ops combusting all over the ground tasked with a snowdrop.

Now winter downs the dying of the year, And night is all a settlement of snow; From the soft street the rooms of houses show A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere, Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin And still allows some stirring down within. I’ve known the wind by water banks to shake The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell And held in ice as dancers in a spell Fluttered all winter long into a lake; Graved on the dark in gestures of descent, They seemed their own most perfect monument. There was perfection in the death of ferns Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone A million years. Great mammoths overthrown Composedly have made their long sojourns, Like palaces of patience, in the gray And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii The little dog lay curled and did not rise But slept the deeper as the ashes rose And found the people incomplete, and froze The random hands, the loose unready eyes Of men expecting yet another sun To do the shapely thing they had not done. These sudden ends of time must give us pause. We fray into the future, rarely wrought Save in the tapestries of afterthought. More time, more time. Barrages of applause Come muffled from a buried radio. The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.

The fingers lie in the lap, separate, lonely, as in the field the separate blades of grass shrivel or grow tall.