JANE, Jane, 
Tall as a crane, 
The morning light creaks down again;

Comb your cockscomb-ragged hair, 
Jane, Jane, come down the stair.

Each dull blunt wooden stalactite 
Of rain creaks, hardened by the light,

Sounding like an overtone 
From some lonely world unknown.

But the creaking empty light 
Will never harden into sight,

Will never penetrate your brain 
With overtones like the blunt rain.

The light would show (if it could harden) 
Eternities of kitchen garden,

Cockscomb flowers that none will pluck, 
And wooden flowers that 'gin to cluck.

In the kitchen you must light 
Flames as staring, red and white,

As carrots or as turnips shining 
Where the cold dawn light lies whining.

Cockscomb hair on the cold wind 
Hangs limp, turns the milk's weak mind . . .

Jane, Jane, 
Tall as a crane, 
The morning light creaks down again!