The senses know the form and smile and eyes of love, but the lover s norm is to pierce through this disguise to spirit which in all things does love intensify to ripened being. Each day that sings our love is more July. Sand below and stars above give instancy of me. I hope to pile the groaning board up high, And importune the prodigals to eat, Ignore the Elder Brother standing by, And give themselves completely to the meat. When I have fears that I may cease to speak before my sullen sun and garner dark at length in day, then on the shore I stand at night and hear the empty rollers break, black wash against the stones.
Words weigh more than words can bear.
No props, no guys, no stays can save this solid world from solid fall. I would command my flautists out upon the porch and golden bowls of tamarinds and pomegranate seeds in ice set down within my reach. Or I would welcome envoys from the east with feasting and a holiday, rise to declare our love for peace and whisper orders to proceed. It s well I do not rule this place for I would teach the crowded lands that peace is war in shepherd s dress. And I would lead great armies south, and at the Ganges cry aloud for other worlds that I might win.