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Poem	At his incipient sun The ice of twenty winters broke, Crackling, in her eyes. Her mirroring, still mind, That held the world (made double) calm, Went fluid, and it ran. There was a stir of music, Mixed with flowers, in her blood; A swift impulsive balm From obscure roots; Gold bees of clinging light Swarmed in her brow. Her throat is full of songs, She hums, she is sensible of wings Growing on her heart. She is a tree in spring Trembling with the hope of leaves, Of which the leaves are tongues.
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