Nothing can be said from the lip of the sun, To array with full redress the wind-flayed waters Of the river-run and the naked broomrape of Spring, Absolve naiads of their blued minstrelsy in venous scream, Or pour a yellow songbird from the gold-rimmed cup of war. Nothing is said in the liver-spotted ground of rain-ghosted gardens, Where love’s monument is a blot of dried flowers and grayed thorns.