(thee will i praise between those rivers whose

white voices pass upon forgetting [fail

me not] whose courseless waters are a gloat

of silver; o'er whose night three willows wail,

a slender dimness in the unshapeful hour

making dear moan in tones of stroked flower;

let not thy lust one threaded moment lose:

haste) the very shadowy sheep float

free upon terrific pastures pale,

whose tall mysterious shepherd lifts a cheek

teartroubled to the momentary wind

with guiding smile, lips wisely minced for blown

kisses, condemnatory fingers thinned

of pity—so he stands counting the moved

myriads wonderfully loved,

(hasten, it is the moment which shall seek

all blossoms that do learn, scents of not known

musics in whose careful eyes are dinned;

and the people of perfect darkness fills

his mind who will their hungering whispers hear

with weepings soundless, saying of "alas

we were chaste on earth we ghosts: hark to the sheer

cadence of our gray flesh in the gloom!

and still to be immortal is our doom;

but a rain frailly raging whom the hills

sink into and their sunsets, it shall pass.

Our feet tread sleepless meadows sweet with fear")

then be with me: unseriously seem

by the perusing greenness of thy thought

my golden soul fabulously to glue

in a superior terror; be thy taut

flesh silver, like the currency of faint

cities eternal—e'er the sinless taint

of thy long sinful arms about me dream

shall my love wholly taste thee as a new

wine from steep hills by darkness softly brought—

(be with me in the sacred witchery

of almostness which May makes follow soon

on the sweet heels of passed afterday,

clothe thy soul's coming merely, with a croon

of mingling robes musically revealed

in rareness: let thy twain eyes deeply wield

a noise of petals falling silently

through the far-spaced possible nearaway

from huge trees drenched by a rounding moon)