your night-rose, sweet
yet such honeysuckle hides   in your
    girl-graces,

in the gravest mirror of my eyes
  rises    the frailest rose,

       its unmindful bend and its
return to my hand's deepest grave —

        o, the wind sleighs my hair
unearthing its roots — in this summer-gladness i am
      one with the morning's terminal
   flush, its beforeness is my sleep
       brimming with the waters of waking
    and you, whose eyes
             inevitably, the day in the horizon.