there is a pond where the water lillies grow
and children weep for their youth,
the silent forces that make the moth
to pebbled thought entombed
in the shifting light of its bed,
and Nowhere is a feeling.
Remember the morning of the bird,
the obscured pane,
where nature died at once, and slowly
even kisses were sharp and revealed
some secret like a moth-wing in a book.
It is here you recall the thing everyone knows,
or pretends to know.