At night, by the fire,
The colors of the
And of the fallen leaves,
Repeating themselves,
Turned in the room,
Like the leaves
Turning in the wind.
Yes: but the color of the heavy
Came striding.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.
The colors of their
Were like the leaves
Turning in the wind,
In the twilight wind.
They swept over the room,
Just as they flew from the boughs of the
Down to the ground.
I heard them cry — the peacocks.
Was it a cry against the
Or against the leaves
Turning in the wind,
Turning as the
Turned in the fire,
Turning as the tails of the
Turned in the loud fire,
Loud as the
Full of the cry of the peacocks?
Or was it a cry against the hemlocks?
Out of the window,
I saw how the planets
Like the leaves
Turning in the wind.
I saw how the night came,
Came striding like the color of the heavy hemlocksI felt afraid.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.
