The Birth of a Poem

In my soul is a fragrant dusk of coming thunder... Heat-lightnings coil there like blue-birds... Lighted windows burn... And fibres, long, Slow-singing, Grow in the gloom... O the odor of flowers that reaches a scream! Lo! lightning in a white zig-zag... And at once all became bright and great... How radiant is the night! Words dance, then flash in couples In an enamored harmony. Out of the womb of consciousness, from the bottom of the labyrinth— Visions crowd in a quailing host... And the verse blossoms into a hyacinth-flower, Cold, fragrant, white.