Aug 212011
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. . . .

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