The Swan is the signet, heraldic joy.
The Banners make animate the inanimate day.
No longer mere, but night-mare changed.
The Swan, the sign, displays its grace.

The lion in the loin that slumbers
shakes the sheath of sleep back from his claws
and stretches. The poets
weave upon that tapestry a spell
of flowering, gold-threaded tendrils of a vine;
make animate each animal form
with conceit of loving. There

as if washt up pun a wave of violet,
of blue, vermillion and clear yellow,
the poets animate a unicorn,
animalization of the beckoning swan.
This is the night-mare thread of their loom.

The days before awakenings, dark ages,
are long with hours for the poet’s tapestry.
The unicorn of gold and swan-white threads
nuzzles the sleeping virgin in the park.
Above their heads the signet of the Prince
is woven,
elaborate blood-red signature.

The poets weave themselves as the erotic hunters.
They wear bright jerkins of a rich brocade
and silk of forest green upon their thighs.
They stand with instruments of hunting,
hooded falcons, spears and nets,
and watch that sleeping nakedness
where they had woven her,
half-hidden in the flowery spread upon the ground.
They smile mysteriously upon their innocence
and upon their unicorn, virgin wildness brought to bay.
Swan into unicorn, innocence to wildness,
brought to bay.

They seem unconscious of the signature.
It glimmers in embroidery of leaves,
the scarlet lake of some significance.