If it is winter in the book
spring surprises me when I look up and though I know
there is nothing like the earth though I know
the lilies in the yard throw open the doors of the heart
with wondrous force and I am a buck-merino a dandy little
buck-merino jumping with felicity over the fence
and I shall not want He maketh me lie down on the bed
to read so I do not know which is the ephemera
the lilies or the boy in winter whose fate is at a toss
Can anything save the appalling youth brightened with
intense pulse or that deep & wailing cry allotted to his crow?
Yea, though I walk through the valley of these things
there is a rich fever that never foams
a swatch of fastidious root fastened to a rock
like a hand gripping a doorknob unable to move
a tentacle of intent that may yet restore
the song of the lute to the lily or the glory of the crow
to the boy
spring surprises me when I look up and though I know
there is nothing like the earth though I know
the lilies in the yard throw open the doors of the heart
with wondrous force and I am a buck-merino a dandy little
buck-merino jumping with felicity over the fence
and I shall not want He maketh me lie down on the bed
to read so I do not know which is the ephemera
the lilies or the boy in winter whose fate is at a toss
Can anything save the appalling youth brightened with
intense pulse or that deep & wailing cry allotted to his crow?
Yea, though I walk through the valley of these things
there is a rich fever that never foams
a swatch of fastidious root fastened to a rock
like a hand gripping a doorknob unable to move
a tentacle of intent that may yet restore
the song of the lute to the lily or the glory of the crow
to the boy