if love's the gaze of stone and hate
the water drifting hands to their
undreams of dreams, then it shall be
with the zither of leaves a quartet of wind
sifts inanimately so as dark as the night
they will not dare speak the ineffable.
if love's touch homing back to cities as
spry as an unwound, delicate moon as
can be, these flowerings drone
exactitudes the rambunctious plunge
of the roots to the Earth
and i will sing these delightful bursts called days in
April have not the touch of frolicking birds
and the quibble of the masses half-opening
and ultimately quivering are the mountains and the fish dance in the tumult
of their aqueous variations
it is April, sing gently, as now all the
leaves have fingers and the ferruginous rivers have feet and my love
a flower at last!
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
if love's the gaze of stone and hate
the water drifting hands to their
undreams of dreams, then it shall be
with the zither of leaves a quartet of wind
sifts inanimately so as dark as the night
they will not dare speak the ineffable.
if love's touch homing back to cities as
spry as an unwound, delicate moon as
can be, these flowerings drone
exactitudes the rambunctious plunge
of the roots to the Earth
and i will sing these delightful bursts called days in
April have not the touch of frolicking birds
and the quibble of the masses half-opening
and ultimately quivering are the mountains and the fish dance in the tumult
of their aqueous variations
it is April, sing gently, as now all the
leaves have fingers and the ferruginous rivers have feet and my love
a flower at last!
Request permission to use this poem