This truest love, triumphantly
   is a bird of prey
marauding 'twain these grayest skies and tenured gain
dine with blessed distinction,
feathered queen!
And any mice caught in between-
   For does my love in summer's rain
prey on the solace of my nightly dreams

Do gauge my love as span of wings
   the distance 'tween each finger
Her wings are spread and through the sky
she soars in arcs and swirls
Each and every blissless night,
   she passes coyly o'erhead,
The curtain in my blood unfurls
and this presence ever lingers-

Perched aloof and tauntingly in a bending oak
she says: "These stars that hover
             above the sky I disbelieve-
           Their palaver, quaint and lasting,
             I disbelieve-
They grip and guide my flutters as an ever-tightn'ng yoke."
Each hand I place o'er the other,
'til each branch is a rung, ladder to the moon.
Said: "And coldly does this horrib' moon smile,
        she laughs 'til my tail is the dust
        each stroke of hours and minutes speak to me
        this cunning moon pours in our hearts this lust-
           How could these shambles any trust?"
This sky, though blacken'd,
cannot rend apart what's happened,
and all it sees with terrible eyes
can prevent not this love fore'er mend-

She glode politely out o' reach,
To soar delightly by me-
Said: "I see the jilted morning glory
           bowing to the moon.
       Each stalk twines traitoriously
           a capsulating swoon-
       Each fruit it bears bequeathes 'nto me
       callous forms of elliptic bracts,
       eats as nothing more than flax-"

For every morning glory's betray'l
I'll harvest ten thousand Orchids from the meadow's fringe,
plucked from the margins of the bog-
This love is not a passing arc
that follows does that jealous moon-
I'll trek the acid, foy an' dinge,
and, if those mice do not erstwhile dine on this orchid's seeds,
that which lays dormant, 'neath the leaves
will send up freshly blooming stalks.