To thrust from the cold branches, to start under
The impulse of intolerable loins—
The faint sweet smell of the trees sickened her.
She walked at the sea’s edge on the blank sand.
Certainly the salt stone that the sea divulges
At the first quarter does not fructify
In pod or tuber nor will the fruiterer cull
Delicate plums from its no-branches—Oh,
Listen to me for the word of the matter is in me—
And if it heats in the sun it heats to itself
Alone and to none that come after it and the rain
Impregnates it not to the slightest—Oh, listen,
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