yours is the music for no instrument

yours the preposterous colour unbeheld

—mine the unbought contemptuous intent

till this our flesh merely shall be excelled

by speaking flower

(if i have made songs

it does not greatly matter to the sun,

nor will rain care

cautiously who prolongs

unserious twilight) shadows have begun

the hair's worm huge, ecstatic, rathe . . . .

yours are the poems i do not write.

In this at least we have got a bulge on death,

silence, and the keenly musical light

of sudden nothing . . . . la bocca mia "he

kissed wholly trembling"

or so thought the lady.