v
It rained toward day. The morning came sad and white
With silver of sea-sadness and defection of season.
Our joys and convictions are sure, but in that wan light
We moved-your mother and I-in muteness of spirit past logical
reason.
Now sun, afternoon, and again summer-glitter on sea.
As
you to a bauble, the heart leaps. The heart unlocks
Joy, though we know, shamefaced, the heart's weather should not
be
Merely a reflex to solstice, or sport of an aggrieved equinox.
No, the heart should be steadfast: I know that.
And I sit in the late-sunny lee of the watch-house,
At the fortress-point, you on my knee, and the late
White butterflies over gold thistle conduct their ritual carouse.
In whisperless carnival, in vehemence of gossamer,
Pale ghosts of pale passions of air, the white wings weave.
In tingle and tangle of arabesque, they mount light, pair by pair,
As
though that tall light were eternal, not merely the summer's
reprieve.
You leap on my knee, you exclaim at the sun-stung gyration.
And the upper air stirs, as though the vast stillness of sky
Had stirred in its sunlit sleep and made suspiration,
A luxurious languor of breath, as after love, there is a sigh.
But enough, for the highest sun-scintillant pair are gone
Seaward, past rampart and cliff borne, over blue sea-gleam.
Close to my chair, to a thistle, one butterfly sinks now, flight done.
On gold bloom of thistle, white wings pulse under the sky's dream.
The sky's dream is enormous, I lift up my eyes.
In sunlight a tatter of mist clings high on the mountain-mass.
