born of my dead childhood, you are the small god in the
temples of my unbelief, you are the bird that nests in ruined
temples, laying your silver eggs by moonlight and singing
when the pagan birds are still.
You are the dream-sower in the fields of sleep, you have
jingled the star-bells on the hood of darkness, and from the
knarled, stark tree of time have flung me the apple of
eternal laughter.
1919