Creaked on her intellectual legs, divine
In being inhuman, and was never caught
By all my speed; for she could outrun thought.
Now I am old enough to know I am young,
I chase more plastic beauties, but inspire
Life in their clay, purity in their dung
With the creative breath of my desire.
And utter truth is now made manifest
When on a certain sleeping face and breast
The moonlight dreams and silver chords are strung,