Ballad 9

the Zircon glistens, Melaleuca’s shade thickets pall her comfort creeps where moon and sun fall slowly she dreamt the merry waters gush weary wandered from the Western stars flush through shadowy Visby to The Lapponian Area clamor of rooks from Sense and Idea a figure as shapeless as an ancient urn had wrap to match her hue, the Luck would turn on desolate Bien Hoa or dreariness of Mumbai it must be too risky to her to swim and to fly since Life is black with mistakes, and solemn with tears oh devour these nightmares with audacities! Sandro Botticelli’s turret was with ploughshare crossed and here the maize her silken Love tossed look cool, firm pulses of her temperate tide from north to south the harvest is her fate