valley.istillreerthelasttyfriechedin

attitude,isextrelyninallgoodesepoetry.so,forinstance,didlipo

e.

taphors,like”idleflohesadhechafingsparroc.the

fullblossotandingidlyinfront,apparentlyingitsfragrantgloryoed

aainonfolloeho

thelastandstiortantpointistheiofnaturalobje

eofthegreatilies:

onluded

etiohesotiontoliveand

thefarrupletothefieldshavegone,

taphorsintheelvesarenothing:thepoetrynsistsispreadinghis

hisnotebook:

ierialflo.soberidsarechatting.

isachieved,then,isapoeticfeelingforthepeachtree,supposedtobecapable

ihedecayoftheblae

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hereetyistheuntrypalace,etylikeadreainlonelinessandquietthered

sharehisople,he

threelelonggayandgreenoas”heartless”becausetheydid

lateattipassedtheverdanthills,

not,astheyoughtto,reerhoudsharethepoetsfeelingofpoignant

aotions,notbydirectpersonificationbutbying

houtoingintothedetailsoftheirdisurse:

ofbeing”bored”todeath,.thesateique,orrather

beginoneofhisbestpoe:

nonpeopleshos梬ithouttheirknowing.

hillside,hjustasiage,halldoorsclosedandasolitarypeachtreein

andontheblackgoheevningsunisglowing,

regret.

anddeadboredaretheflosideitsdoors.

noheredsparroing,

or,inoneofhisbestknos,drink

andtheshewangandhsiehhalls,

iedpalace,