(thee will i praise between those rivers whose
white voices pass upon forgetting(fail
me not)whose courseless waters are a gloat
of silver;o'er whose night three willows wail,
a slender dimness in the unshapeful hour
making dear moan in tones of stroked flower;
let not thy lust one threaded moment lose:
haste)the very shadowy sheep float
free upon terrific pastures pale,
 
whose tall mysterious shepherd lifts a cheek
teartroubled to the momentary wind
with guiding smile,lips wisely minced for blown
kisses,condemnatory fingers thinned
of pity—so he stands counting the moved
myriads wonderfully loved,
(hasten,it is the moment which shall seek
all blossoms that do learn,scents of not known
musics in whose careful eyes are dinned;
 
and the people of perfect darkness fills
his mind who will their hungering whispers hear
with weepings soundless,saying of "alas
we were chaste on earth we ghosts:hark to the sheer
cadence of our grey flesh in the gloom!
and still to be immortal is our doom;
but a rain frailly raging whom the hills
sink into and their sunsets,it shall pass.
Our feet tread sleepless meadows sweet with fear")
 
then be with me:unseriously seem
by the perusing greenness of thy thought
my golden soul fabulously to glue
in a superior terror;be thy taut
flesh silver,like the currency of faint
cities eternal—ere the sinless taint
of thy long sinful arms about me dream
shall my love wholly taste thee as a new
wine from steep hills by darkness softly brought—
 
(be with me in the sacred witchery
of almostness which May makes follow soon
on the sweet heels of passed afterday,
clothe thy soul's coming merely,with a croon
of mingling robes musically revealed
in rareness:let thy twain eyes deeply wield
a noise of petals falling silently
through the far-spaced possible nearaway
from huge trees drenched by a rounding moon)

when life is quite through with
and leaves say alas,
much is to do
for the swallow,that closes
a flight in the blue;

when love's had his tears out,
perhaps shall pass
a million years
(while a bee dozes
on the poppies,the dears;

when all's done and said,and
under the grass
lies her head
by oaks and roses
deliberated.)

Always before your voice my soul 
half-beautiful and wholly droll 
is as some smooth and awkward foal, 
whereof young moons begin 
the newness of his skin, 

so of my stupid sincere youth 
the exquisite failure uncouth 
discovers a trembling and smooth 
Unstrength,against the strong 
silences of your song; 

or as a single lamb whose sheen 
of full unsheared fleece is mean 
beside its lovelier friends,between 
your thoughts more white than wool 
My thought is sorrowful: 

but my heart smote in trembling thirds 
of anguish quivers to your words, 
As to a flight of thirty birds 
shakes with a thickening fright 
the sudden fooled light.

it is the autumn of a year: 
When through the thin air stooped with fear, 
across the harvest whitely peer 
empty of surprise 
death's faultless eyes 

(whose hand my folded soul shall know 
while on faint hills do frailly go 
The peaceful terrors of the snow, 
and before your dead face 
which sleeps,a dream shall pass) 

and these my days their sounds and flowers 
Fall in a pride of petaled hours, 
like flowers at the feet of mowers 
whose bodies strong with love 
through meadows hugely move. 

yet what am i that such and such 
mysteries very simply touch 
me,whose  heart-wholeness overmuch 
Expects of your hair pale, 
a terror musical? 

while in an earthless hour my fond 
soul seriously yearns beyond 
this fern of sunset frond on frond 
opening in a rare 
Slowness of  gloried air... 

The flute of morning stilled in noon— 
noon the implacable bassoon— 
now Twilight seeks the thrill of moon, 
washed with a wild and thin 
despair of violin

Thy fingers make early flowers of
all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
sings,saying
(though love be a day)
do not fear,we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
Always
thy moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
says;singing
(though love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

To be thy lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death,Thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).

All in green went my love riding 
on a great horse of gold 
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling 
the merry deer ran before. 

Fleeter be they than dappled dreams 
the swift sweet deer 
the red rare deer. 

Four red roebuck at a white water 
the cruel bugle sang before. 

Horn at hip went my love riding 
riding the echo down 
into the silver dawn. 

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling 
the level meadows ran before. 

Softer be they than slippered sleep 
the lean lithe deer 
the fleet flown deer. 

Four fleet does at a gold valley 
the famished arrow sang before. 

Bow at belt went my love riding 
riding the mountain down 
into the silver dawn. 

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling 
the sheer peaks ran before. 

Paler be they than daunting death 
the sleek slim deer 
the tall tense deer. 

Four tall stags at a green mountain 
the lucky hunter sang before. 

All in green went my love riding 
on a great horse of gold 
into the silver dawn. 

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling 
my heart fell dead before.

Where's Madge then,
Madge and her men?
buried with
Alice in her hair,
(but if you ask the rain
he'll not tell where.)

beauty makes terms
with time and his worms,
when loveliness
says sweetly Yes
to wind and cold;
and how much earth
is Madge worth?
Inquire of the flower that sways in the autumn
she will never guess.
but i know

Doll's boy ’s asleep 
under a stile 
he sees eight and twenty 
ladies in a line 

the first lady 
says to nine ladies 
his lips drink water 
but his heart drinks wine 

the tenth lady 
says to nine ladies 
they must chain his foot 
for his wrist ’s too fine 

the nineteenth 
says to nine ladies 
you take his mouth 
for his eyes are mine. 

Doll's boy ’s asleep 
under the stile 
for every mile the feet go 
the heart goes nine

cruelly,love 
walk the autumn long; 
the last flower in whose hair, 
thy lips are cold with songs 

for which is 
first to wither,to pass? 
shallowness of sunlight 
falls and,cruelly, 
across the grass 
Comes the 
moon 

love,walk the 
autumn 
love,for the last 
flower in the hair withers; 
thy hair is acold with 
dreams, 
love thou art frail 

—walk the longness of autumn 
smile dustily to the people, 
for winter 
who crookedly care.

when god lets my body be

From each brave eye shall sprout a tree
fruit that dangles therefrom

the purpled world will dance upon
Between my lips which did sing

a rose shall beget the spring
that maidens whom passion wastes

will lay between their little breasts
My strong fingers beneath the snow

Into strenuous birds shall go
my love walking in the grass

their wings will touch with her face
and all the while shall my heart be

With the bulge and nuzzle of the sea