Your silences
Are crimson
On which your words make delicate
Black tracery.

As for me,
My will is the grey lead
Which I have bent to hold the coloured
Panes of you.

III. SPIRE

My wish goes singing upward
Holding a chime of bells
In its heart:

Pigeons know my silent bells,
Winds touch them and wonder.

That they might reach
That high blue--

Till star fingers touch them
Ever so gently--

And drifting clouds
Lay cool cheeks against them--

My wish goes singing upward