The wind, bursting the dust of moss buds,
in unfurled spaces,
in slants of wind mought
rather sweetly,

• is as a desolate wanderer. Call out to me, he is amber colored,
  only but low,
  only over my breast; of a lass, deep in sense,
  where all sounds are lies.
  The rich

• sun calls, I, slow, unfold of my petals,
  where all men uncover me-
  in the dawn.

• HD Hilda Doolittle