We had it, we had it—the violet hour,
We had the singed twilight for our
The lamps were headless and the years
And we had the silence in our hands
Like a seer’s ball.
Today’s face turns where there isn’t any
Today’s heart yearns where the grass
There are shadows here that have forsaken
And leaves of bronze that don’t touch each
And light—without ecstacy.
Appeal to black, numb trees and bloodless
That are unseeing and beyond our clime;
Appeal to the file-edged tongue of sky.
Then swallow soul’s silent poison,
And seek haven in a hutch of rhyme.