The Father
I will not let in the day unless she be by
and billow the sheets upon my head,
if no billowed tresses I would find;
the sun early born I will ‘til old age deny;
dewy leaf go!—gone!—from my bed,
to loathe and adore body supine
and entwining heat. What repose, stead-
fast flight, can a flutter-by allay?
What little kisses adorn a cooled side,
upon a pillowed brow unassured.
My absentee muse of effervescence!;
and traipse such dreaming mist so blithe:
upon a window and hot streak blurred,
a finger to leave a light spirit-essence
wrought this small box world. Être en fleur
wetted too steady for fragile frame arise.
Where are you now? with night's moth
clutching its soft and warming wings?--
amidst the cold veil I cannot lift,
or black vestment atop our chrysalis cloth;
and sweet, long malady they'll sing,
and holy-scented billows of vapor drift,
and shut senses, I will inter between and wring.
What dispelling heat is Love and God's wrath?
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