from Heart of Love
I watched the stars the other night
rove in their dark eternities
immortally, the hand of kings
could not command such tapestry.
The hyacinth was yet to bloom.
The titan spheres revolved in light
of God's impossibilities,
and even Saturn had her rings
rolled in the forge of poetry.
As in the churchyard, I assume.
What bated flowers here, despite
the dew that fell on tender knees,
what hell clutched fast at heaven's spring
and in unhuman industry?
What roseal due comes from a tomb?
But it was early to presume.