You stepped from the bus-stop Into the sun; it is a death To know you are gone, are gone. . . . When the ding-dong bell dong-dings Is it your foot upon the stoop? Hi-yii! My imagination slips out The door and up to very heaven Flagrant as any tingling lark Into sunny realms we'd known Hours maybe, hands folded Like wing in wing at rest From frantic flight, and yet In that duel quiescence, what recompense! Silent ecstasies of skies made dense.