Such a morning it is when mice
run whispering from the church,
dragging dropped ears of harvest.
When the partridge draws back his spring
and shoots like a buzzing arrow
over grained and mahogany fields.
When no table is bare
and no breast dry,
and the tramp feeds off ribs of rabbit.
Such a day it is when time
piles up the hills like pumpkins,
and the streams run golden.
When all men smell good,
and the cheeks of girls
are as baked bread to the mouth.
As bread and bean flowers
the touch of their lips,
and their white teeth sweeter than cucumbers.
Dream in a dream the heavy soul somewhere
struck suddenly & dark down to its knees.
A griffin sighs off in the orphic air.
If (Unknown Majesty) I not confess
praise for the rack the rock the live sailor
under the blue sea,--yet I may You bless
always for hér, in fear & joy for hér
whose gesture summons ever when I grieve
me back and is my mage and minister.
--Muses: whose worship I may never leave
but for this pensive woman, now I dare,
teach me her praise! with her my praise receive.--