II

　　Battledore and Shuttlecock

　　The shuttlecock soars upward

　　In a parabola of whiteness,

　　Turns,

　　And sinks to a perfect arc.

　　Plat! the battledore strikes it,

　　And it rises again,

　　Without haste,

　　Winged and curving,

　　Tracing its white flight

　　Against the clipped hemlock-trees.

　　Plat!

　　Up again,

　　Orange and sparkling with sun,

　　Rounding under the blue sky,

　　Dropping,

　　Fading to grey-green

　　In the shadow of the coned hemlocks.

　　"Ninety-one." "Ninety-two." "Ninety-three."

　　The arms of the little girls

　　Come up -- and up --

　　Precisely,

　　Like mechanical toys.

　　The battledores beat at nothing,

　　And toss the dazzle of snow

　　Off their parchment drums.

　　"Ninety-four." Plat!

　　"Ninety-five." Plat!

　　Back and forth

　　Goes the shuttlecock,

　　Icicle-white,

　　Leaping at the sharp-edged clouds,

　　Overturning,

　　Falling,

　　Down,

　　And down,

　　Tinctured with pink

　　From the upthrusting shine

　　Of Oriental poppies.

　　The little girls sway to the counting rhythm;

　　Left foot,

　　Right foot.

　　Plat! Plat!

　　Yellow heat twines round the handles of the battledores,

　　The parchment cracks with dryness;

　　But the shuttlecock

　　Swings slowly into the ice-blue sky,

　　Heaving up on the warm air

　　Like a foam-bubble on a wave,

　　With feathers slanted and sustaining.

　　Higher,

　　Until the earth turns beneath it;

　　Poised and swinging,

　　With all the garden flowing beneath it,

　　Scarlet, and blue, and purple, and white --

　　Blurred colour reflections in rippled water --

　　Changing -- streaming --

　　For the moment that Stella takes to lift her arm.

　　Then the shuttlecock relinquishes,

　　Bows,

　　Descends;

　　And the sharp blue spears of the air

　　Thrust it to earth.

　　Again it mounts,

　　Stepping up on the rising scents of flowers,

　　Buoyed up and under by the shining heat.

　　Above the foxgloves,

　　Above the guelder-roses,

　　Above the greenhouse glitter,

　　Till the shafts of cooler air

　　Meet it,

　　Deflect it,

　　Reject it,

　　Then down,

　　Down,

　　Past the greenhouse,

　　Past the guelder-rose bush,

　　Past the foxgloves.

　　"Ninety-nine," Stella's battledore springs to the

　　impact.

　　Plunk! Like the snap of a taut string.

　　"Oh! Minna!"

　　The shuttlecock drops zigzagedly,

　　Out of orbit,

　　Hits the path,

　　And rolls over quite still.

　　Dead white feathers,

　　With a weight at the end.