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How fine a thing was she who lay
Shimmered with the morning heat,
Who had soul in plated steel;
She who one with us by night
Measured the depth of night’s repose
In one chaste screaming song
While somewhere slept in troubled beds
The audience of our troubled masquerade

And we not think of easy bed?
Feel smooth and lost caresses of the loves
That were no loves but anodynes to mock
To serve for that we might not live to have?
Oh it was full the life we led:
When ripened corn in open fields
Bent to the urgent whispers of the evening breeze
We caught ourselves alone without verses;
And just because we longed for plenitude of life
We’d throw a sigh into the evanescent stars
That were not temporal as our quietude
Contd.