PARTICULAR LULLABY
Reading edition
DECLINES at evening from your eyes, Like summer slipping down a tree, Your noon-high pride: but not your wise, Your sensitive pleased beauty. The ebb of spirit from the vase Of woman is the hurt extreme Of conscious breath. Bewilder your thighs, Wrap your long thought in a dream. By image of all hush, a mist Of blossom on the feminine bough, Annul the runner of your wrist, The small clock going in your brow. On present time’s derisive hope Then break, O ever of your smile: Sunbreak of lips, from radiant sleep, Dazzle the perpetually meanwhile.