When I wish upon a scrawl of star Scribbled in my mistress' hair, I in splendid isolation look Into the nook of night as into a book, Where the green slope goes down into green eve To touch the emerald river's reprieve. . . . Then I consider, in my moody dark, The owl's coo, the fox's bark. Dooms of dovish dulcimers Pluck up the cold, the forceful chords Where the river's green thigh still thumps Such human, nocturnal warmth. . . .