Here, in the withered arbor, like the arrested wind, <br />Straight sides, carven knees, <br />Stands the statue, with hands flung out in alarm <br />Or remonstrances. <br /> <br />Over the lintel sway the woven bracts of the vine <br />In a pattern of angles. <br />The quill of the fountain falters, woods rake on the sky <br />Their brusque tangles. <br /> <br />The birds walk by slowly, circling the marble girl, <br />The golden quails, <br />The pheasants, closed up in their arrowy wings, <br />Dragging their sharp tails. <br /> <br />The inquietudes of the sap and of the blood are spent. <br />What is forsaken will rest. <br />But her heel is lifted,—she would flee,—the whistle of the birds <br />Fails on her breast.<br /><br />Louise Bogan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/statue-and-birds/
