Erato

She seeks out the peace of
The gardens, for her
Hands stir like the wild-flowers,
Her hair a quiver.
Of Spiritus Mundi: of all worlds
A citizen, a flower
Lacking not in the least
Petal or leaf,
Nor is her beauty liable to ruin.

A girl, or woman: her eyes
Are the brilliance of fire
And of ice; her teeth like well-carved
Marble; of that pallor
Also her complexion.
A pure wandering ghost
Thru field, thru wood, a seeker
Of tomorrows and days past,
Never steadfast but chaste, in continence truant.

She hears from the wings of honey-bees
The hum of enterprise,
But that is none of hers:
To be idle is her business,
Or to walk slowly, or to stand
Still and be statuesque
In order that one might behold her
For that instant and ask,
As of an urn, just what it is she is.

But do not, for she will move on
A moment after and will not reply.
She has meetings elsewhere:
Another soul, another grappling eye.
And far anon, in eras not now dreamed,
She will sojourn,
As Fancy shall forever roam
And poets burn
To steal the latent wonder of her kiss.



1985ish