The Father

I will not let in the day unless she be by and billow the sheets upon my head, if no billowed tresses I would find; the sun early born I will ‘til old age deny; dewy leaf go!—gone!—from my bed, to loathe and adore body supine and entwining heat. What repose, stead- fast flight, can a flutter-by allay? What little kisses adorn a cooled side, upon a pillowed brow unassured. My absentee muse of effervescence!; and traipse such dreaming mist so blithe: upon a window and hot streak blurred, a finger to leave a light spirit-essence wrought this small box world. Être en fleur wetted too steady for fragile frame arise. Where are you now? with night's moth clutching its soft and warming wings?-- amidst the cold veil I cannot lift, or black vestment atop our chrysalis cloth; and sweet, long malady they'll sing, and holy-scented billows of vapor drift, and shut senses, I will inter between and wring. What dispelling heat is Love and God's wrath?