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CONVERSATIONS
Two or three on the winter pavement talking,
One or two in the stubble field,
Idle, concerning miracles.
Voices are butter, but the eyes overtly
Detest another's dubious lips;
Eyes are blades where fancy breeds.
In boredom breeds, meanwhile remains to each
Enemy his friend, to every lying
Tongue an angel apiece.
The conversation therefore is in heaven
Here on the streets of understanding
Here in the fields of bread,
When men are magic and air their advocates
Bide by the human grain and yet,
Though these offences needs must come,
Agree, sincere as light.
Blessed is the child of indiscretion talking,
And the orphan of indignation,
And before their Father's face, their conversations
Continually dancing.
Blessed are sons enticed to sea, and the mother
Constrained by wonder and by sign;
Their angels cover the face of the water
And the water singeth a quiet tune.
Two or three must argue these contentions;
One or two
in
a winter season
Herein long since have plucked a sentiment or scandal.
But our conversation is in heaven.