The wood-wild flows are turning In still knells about my path— The dust of everything unfolds, Into mornings claras— The songs all dance, take note— Over each silence Has a serenity thought— My heart is girdled in light, As each break of dew knits gold hues— With wings all above the forest floor. They cast low softly among the brambles, The cloudy blooms of cerulean chimed—
Each breath in waves a union, So tender speaks, reluctant Yet nimble as mirrors— The dusk listens still now— As strains escape stars in the tresses, Zestful sense collects, unfurl— Rises high in every grain!

• Hilda Doolittle