Shivering reeds are ember green, bronzing in new-world delight,
The virgin quiet has its garden picked, apple-heavy breezes thick,
Laurel sap quick, mixed with something brick-red,
To wait so pale, we abide by a flickering moon,
Awaiting a green-world, man-shaped still,
We don’t fit.
Slipping a simple summery spell, it shifts,
A wren made poppy-red for a marble chant,
Feathery voices yell.
The river swallows and swells,
Every gathering of sweet madness chained by a knell,
Winter suffering is akin to hell,
Every soul is made pure.
Blue-faced dawn breaks that bell
For all is all,
And all is well.