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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=366835" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Poem (Remember midsummer: the fragrance of box)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Remember midsummer: the fragrance of box, of white<br> roses<br>And of phlox. And upon a honeysuckle branch <br>Three snails hanging with infinite delicacy<br>-- Clinging like tendril, flake and thread, as self-tormented<br>And self-delighted as any ballerina,<br> just as in the orchard,<br>Near the apple trees, in the over-grown grasses<br>Drunken wasps clung to over-ripe pears<br>Which had fallen: swollen and disfigured.<br>For now it is wholly autumn: in the late<br>Afternoon as I walked toward the ridge where the hills<br> begin,<br>There is a whir, a thrashing in the bush, and a startled<br> pheasant, flying out and up,<br>Suddenly astonished me, breaking the waking dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Last night<br>Snatches of sleep, streaked by dreams and half dreams<br>- So that, aloft in the dim sky, for almost an hour,<br>A sausage balloon - chalk-white and lifeless looking--<br> floated motionless<br>Until, at midnight, I went to New Bedlam and saw what I<br> feared<br> the most - I heard nothing, but it<br> had all happened several times elsewhere.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, in the cold glittering morning, shining at the<br> window,<br>The pears hang, yellowed and over-ripe, sodden brown in<br> erratic places, all bunched and dangling,<br>Like a small choir of bagpipes, silent and waiting. And I<br> rise now,<br>Go to the window and gaze at the fallen or falling country<br>-- And see! -- the fields are pencilled light brown <br> or are the dark brownness of the last autumn<br>-- So much has shrunken to straight brown lines, thin as<br> the<br> bare thin trees,<br>Save where the cornstalks, white bones of the lost forever dead,<br>Shrivelled and fallen, but shrill-voiced when the wind<br> whistles,<br>Are scattered like the long abandoned hopes and ambitions <br>Of an adolescence which, for a very long time, has been<br> merely<br>A recurrent target and taunt of the inescapable mockery of<br> memory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Delmore+Schwartz">Delmore Schwartz</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=366835" data-title="Poem (Remember midsummer: the fragrance of box) de Delmore Schwartz" data-description="Remember midsummer: the fragrance of box, of white
 roses
And of phlox. And upon a honeysuckle branch 
Three snails hanging with infinite delicacy
-- Clinging like tendril, flake and thread, as self-tormented
And self-delighted as any ballerina,
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