Ornamental clouds
compose an evening love song;
a road leaves evasively.
The new moon begins
...
Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps:
silence of paintings. You language where all language
ends. You time
standing vertically on the motion of mortal hearts.
...
Marveling he stands on the cathedral's
steep ascent, close to the rose window,
as though frightened at the apotheosis
which grew and all at once
...
We lack all knowledge of this parting. Death
does not deal with us. We have no reason
to show death admiration, love or hate;
his mask of feigned tragic lament gives us
...
Swing of the heart. O firmly hung, fastened on what
invisible branch. Who, who gave you the push,
that you swung with me into the leaves?
How near I was to the exquisite fruits. But not-staying
...
That's my window. This minute
So gently did I alight
From sleep--was still floating in it.
Where has my life its limit
...
Who says that all must vanish?
Who knows, perhaps the flight
of the bird you wound remains,
and perhaps flowers survive
...
That is my window. Just now
I have so softly wakened.
I thought that I would float.
How far does my life reach,
...
This laboring of ours with all that remains undone,
as if still bound to it,
is like the lumbering gait of the swan.
...
I am, O Anxious One. Don't you hear my voice
surging forth with all my earthly feelings?
They yearn so high, that they have sprouted wings
and whitely fly in circles round your face.
...