And beg thy timbers to cast thee one.
Ah, Builder, let me wander in this land
Of softened shapes to choose. My hand doth reach
To catch the mantle cast by lilies whom the sun
Hath loved too well. And at this morrow
Saw I not a purple wing of night
To fold itself and bask in morning light?
I watched her steal straight to the sun’s
Bedazzled heart. I claim her purpled gold.
And watched I not, at twi-hours creep,