There is a heaven in the low gardens—
A brighter way among those who will toil,
And deepest music wafts above and below,
The songs in bird are like the colours in flower,
In green alms of tendril arms so aimed to disarm,
Are petals of flag, wings wanding, reign of pollens,
Flowers loud, entreating as birds calm— release us
And always, beams of sun shower those with light,
Many who come are want to linger— everlasting,
The heart is there— on wing with soul learning.

Four crows, black on cloud,
Dark, sordid wings parry and ******—
Murdering white skies.

I have no strength for devotion,

no dedication to sit at your feet,

still not averse to sensual enticements

no passion for the union through meditation;

bearing this in mind every moment,

Oh! mother divine

I adore you with the fragrant flowers of my words.

When you leave I ebb like Coma Snow White
Not dead, just frozen in carbonite.

In gentle mornings  .  .  .
Chorus after making love,
  .  .  .  Coos of wild doves.