WEBSITE OF CLARKE EMERVANE

SOME STANZAS

from The Walk


I’ve not a dancing wing of prose;
the thorn shall come before the rose.
The honeycup was swell at morn;
can I bear mead, so lately born?

Upon an evening sheaf of wheat
a galaxy stands: lone; complete
and speaks of sempiternal love
in each cumulonimbal dove.

Come drown in a pearlescent sea
anfractuous, tortuous, bide with me
and effulgate the strait divine
by a peripatetic rime.






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