Two men stand, like statues, on the gilded crest
Summer's weave, the word in strands
The world waits to my heart;
Lest summer suns end with splinters dark,
I lust for the winter's bark.
'In my craft or sullen art',
Sad song to the wind sings
Strong grass and nettles nestle vested,
Busted in the great green sheen;
This shade, will give me strength, soon.
To write the word I must reign;
Caress lovely, and shape to tame
Whip the surf and anger of my turn
Allow to breathe with full lung longed
And quell, quickened by the quill, quaintly.
Or quench slowly,
Drenched in vespers light, lonely
Languid chords dappled in wrought golden
Forged in florid fires of minor scores
By phosphor flash on lucid braids;
Blossoms from lambent shadows conspired,
To quiet, quicksilvered thought myriad.
From leaves by the alter, wise
I long for the last light of calm
In words, I told time;
The air is sweet now,
But I wish for the one that burns
Raging in these restive years,
I have learned many motions
Felt many slide sideways
To earn eagerly, lost, but still free
Stolen arid pride sighs on sea
No lies, for this truth holds lithely
And at night words stay true;
As innocence wept, broken
Trust lying in the lull.