If it is winter in the book
spring surprises me     when I look up      and though I know
there is nothing like the earth      though I know
the lilies in the yard    throw open the doors of the heart
with wondrous force   and I am a buck-merino     a dandy little
buck-merino     jumping with felicity over the fence
and I shall not want    He maketh me lie down on the bed
to read    so I do not know which is the ephemera
the lilies      or the boy in winter whose fate is at a toss
Can anything save the appalling youth brightened with
intense pulse or that deep & wailing cry allotted to his crow?
Yea, though I walk through the valley of these things
there is a rich fever     that never foams
a swatch of fastidious root fastened to a rock
like a hand gripping a doorknob     unable to move
a tentacle of intent that may yet restore
the song of the lute to the lily    or the glory of the crow
to the boy