Did he not bathe the treetops in his gore?
The red is mine. I weave my dream and find
The rainbow, and the rainbow’s end—a nothingness.
Almost equally weird is this “Birth of a Song”:
I builded me a harp,
And set asearch for strings.
Ah, and Folly set me ’pon a track
That set the music at a wail;
For I did string the harp
With silvered moon-threads;