roam the fingers, thin and light.
beguile by the brooks, chilly and frighted.
rust in trunks, ****** bells in hums,
greens they run, yellows the sun.

down the ripples, silent and long;
appear books, of language and song.

in the books, shall be love-
veiled beyond views
from branches I once sew;
the stains in the berries, the one in teas,
redden every morning, on laced napkins;
the love of ballet songs; in waves of faerie wands;
The cloaked mist, in time, of the faces I still want.