who shall then dare dream the Sun to be a flower or a new, keen city higher than steeples and umbilicus of wires disavowed streets and herds of proletariats?
and if so then it shall be a flower who picks itself from the unmoving Earth then what steady light will it bring? who will join it in its revelry and who shall be brave with trembling hands to hold it in hand taut like loves divined and forever is spring and forever is winter endless with ephemeral whiteness and bells are a-ringing and clouds are twitching so as to sail where nobody has ever visited
always it is Spring and in my hand is the Sun or the florid aureole burning in my palm and the moon is my love whose night is carefully a fraction of flower placing an inch of sleep in my body, always it is lovely