1 Love, love, a lily's my care, She's sweeter than a tree. Loving, I use the air Most lovingly: I breathe; Mad in the wind I wear Myself as I should be, All's even with the odd, My brother the vine is glad. Are flower and seed the same? What do the great dead say? Sweet Phoebe, she's my theme: She sways whenever I sway. "O love me while I am, You green thing in my way!" I cried, and the birds came down And made my song their own. Motion can keep me still: She kissed me out of thought As a lovely substance will; She wandered; I did not: I stayed, and light fell Across her pulsing throat; I stared, and a garden stone Slowly became the moon. The shallow stream runs slack; The wind creaks slowly by; Out of a nestling's beak Comes a tremulous cry I cannot answer back; A shape from deep in the eye-- That woman I saw in a stone-- Keeps pace when I walk alone. 2 The sun declares the earth; The stones leap in the stream; On a wide plain, beyond The far stretch of a dream, A field breaks like the sea; The wind's white with her name, And I walk with the wind. The dove's my will today. She sways, half in the sun: Rose, easy on a stem, One with the sighing vine, One to be merry with, And pleased to meet the moon. She likes wherever I am. Passion's enough to give Shape to a random joy: I cry delight: I know The root, the core of a cry. Swan-heart, arbutus-calm, She moves when time is shy: Love has a thing to do. A fair thing grows more fair; The green, the springing green Makes an intenser day Under the rising moon; I smile, no mineral man; I bear, but not alone, The burden of this joy. 3 Under a southern wind, The birds and fishes move North, in a single stream; The sharp stars swing around; I get a step beyond The wind, and there I am, I'm odd and full of love. Wisdom, where is it found?-- Those who embrace, believe. Whatever was, still is, Says a song tied to a tree. Below, on the ferny ground, In rivery air, at ease, I walk with my true love. What time's my heart? I care. I cherish what I have Had of the temporal: I am no longer young But the winds and waters are; What falls away will fall; All things bring me to love. 4 The breath of a long root, The shy perimeter Of the unfolding rose, The green, the altered leaf, The oyster's weeping foot, And the incipient star-- Are part of what she is. She wakes the ends of life. Being myself, I sing The soul's immediate joy. Light, light, where's my repose? A wind wreathes round a tree. A thing is done: a thing Body and spirit know When I do what she does: Creaturely creature, she!-- I kiss her moving mouth, Her swart hilarious skin; She breaks my breath in half; She frolicks like a beast; And I dance round and round, A fond and foolish man, And see and suffer myself In another being, at last.