Come poet laureate,
   define where is a hill we must fly to;
come between the fresh clear stream- song of me
and the grey downy matter no longer seen;
   call where are the cotton woods
that you lend its own silk too-

  the times did look you down
when we gathered in a great northern mass
and we dialed back the ways to heaven
and little by little died in the same way
within the lake full of our own feathers.

Come Laureate where up on the *hilt of gander lays.