| What branches grow out of this stony rubbish? ... 'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; | 35 |
| 'They called me the hyacinth girl.' | |
| —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, | |
| Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not | |
| Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither | |
| Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, | 40 |
| Looking into the heart of light, the silence. | |
| Od' und leer das Meer. |
The first soft days of Spring, with the jonquils and forsythia vying for our attention, yearly recalls T.S. Eliot's the Waste Land. Like Spring, like the Resurrection, this litany creeps to my conciousness.
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