The Weather-Cock Points South
I put your leaves aside.
One by one:
The still broad outer leaves;
The smaller ones,
Pleasant to touch, veined with purple;
The glazed inner leaves
One by one
I parted you from your leaves
Until you stood up like a white flower
Swaying slightly in the evening wind. [...]
Where in all the garden is there such a flower?
The bud is more than the calyx.
There is nothing to equal a white bud,
Of no color and of all,
Burnished by moonlight,
Thrust upon by a softly-swinging wind.
