In early morning,
Mist revolving joys,
Everything so glorious,
The grey fox on the shores,
The great blue herons,
Light houses of dawn,
Arching into heavens,
Overlooking all souls,
Such colours by the sounds,
Lilting in the scores of clover,
Of bees notating and staffs,
Sway of staved dragonflies,
Dropped dew belled in petals
And whole world lathed
With harmonious light.
Across the silvered pond
Were deep woods without name,
For journeys into wrested sleep
And light poured, raining
Through the spring leaves,
Staining the glass of the sky,
Ordaining the stationed hearts,
Held by the still deer, who walked
On waters, wading into sun,
Each night destroyed
By freshness and rays,
The mottled waking meadows,
Green as ever growing,
More alive then old legend,
O to be a pilgrim with eyes,
Opening!
To be shy lord in the fortresses
Of fallen trees and savour such
Piney sense as rooted sassafras,
The smells of mosses and leaf,
On the shores of the painted
Turtles, shaded by lurching trees
Mushroomed over shallows, sunning
And hear the foghorned frogs
Alerting the dark gleeming, red-
Winged blackbirds to their reeds
Among the rocks a child
Skips, hums upon.
So breaking was the boy
In the hood of the pond,
More alive, golden, than a star,
Round that very crested shire,
In the berry vines of ripeness,
Winding marshes at play,
Where blush of wild ducks
Endlessly saunter and rooks
Dot the airs circling eternal.
Now in ages past,
After, pond enameled
So far away still sings
Of childhood to come,
For any lost soul who waits,
Beyond cries, a warbles lulling,
What songbirds might ring,
For newborns who break,
Into some future paradise,
Births of new days dawning,
Dominions of the sun.
