The poem
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!