Summer without it first. So that darkness as it lifts, answers tender and limber-born enfolding your homeward arc. Thine are the ripened fields of gold, gleaming- where thrushes plunge like flutes at dusk — and the light behind pulses unfurling moon-rats in thick lanes, streaming along dusky sides, creek beds of evening-dew, you must pace through with me, flower-loosed, deeply drunk. Where wingless the air is shy, a-gather within us. We shall drown softly, unargued by nature’s rapid silk, drifting ever-onward.

• Mina Loy