WORDS, words,
Ye are like birds.
Would I might fold you,
In my hands hold you
Till ye were warm and your feathers a-flutter;
Till, in your throats,
Tremulous notes
Foretold the songs ye would utter.
|
Love must be a fearsome thing I could find a heart to sing |
Dumb Mother of all music, let me rest |
Here they give me greeting, Here the ruddy hearth-light I would leave a gift here |
What bring ye me, O camels, across the southern desert, |
I ’ll not believe the dullard dark, |
O Brother Planets, unto whom I cry, |
I Saw not they were strange, the ways I roam, If I might follow... |
O Far-off rose of long ago, Why say they: Roses shall return |