One of your cold jelly-fish poets that find themselves cast up by some wave upon a sandy subject, and so wrinkle themselves about a pebble of a theme and let us see it through their substance—as if that were a great feat.
Cousin cloud
the wind of music
blow me into wreath
and curve of grace
as it bloweth thee.
And then
A gentle violin mated with the flute,
And both flew off into a wood of harmony,
Two doves of tone.