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.