Where words are not to know but to resemble,
Where thoughts are no vain approximations
Of suprise-there is your face. Dissemble
Then the tragic moments: mute proclamations
Of wisdom woman knows-your nun-like face.
To walk (My love! My love!) where green leaves are
Bravely trembling to the music of sparrows!
To partake of blue joys hoping
From what birds I do not know! My blue guitar
Shall never twang again for bird-song never stopping!
There beats your heart where my poor one lies.
You have me back lost phrases:
The rain-gifts of the soul’s divine unreason!
I stand upon a height,
The fractured hill of manhood’s lingering pain
Where I pause between valleys of our speaking.
Now, my heart, a bird in fligh,
No longer cries for peace.