I

When I felt what she had given
All my mind was silvered through
All my multiple confusions
Were infused with something new.

Round the central pathic standpoint
Dreams revolve, of depth unknown;
I cannot be filled with anger:
They are fit for me alone.

Dance, my dear, and bless the standpoint!
Let it flourish till the dawn....
There is no reward for handling
Goods that cannot quite be sown.

II

When she fell to my axe in the warmth of the morning,
I grew to a size that will never be known.
I hovered and fluttered, swept off with a warning,
For principles suffer from magic alone.

There is no new morning; there is no new phantom
That cannot be hatched when the day has begun;
And if we are willing to ride with abandon,
It will not be long before laurels are won.

III

­Portrait
On a Southern door
Where green moons are sweetly measured
Underneath
No litters foul the nest
For all
The paper pellets
Pass in passion.

IV

So we nearly again, so we nearly were measured;
'Not quite' was the word that was nailed to the door.
There is no false question of traffic with pleasures ­
For people and passion lie spent on the floor.

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