There is music in the white dove of a tired mind.
Hilations of sunset burnish his wingspan.
He can see further into the past than you or I,
Wringing his own neck in the effort
To catch the echo of his song before he has sung it.
It bobs in his throat, like precious fruit
Ripe with this sweetness.
He perches on the century,
Wears out genius visions with his pacing,
Leaving desire lines on the face of greatness.
Walk with him.
Trace the wants so bare that man must circle them like prey,
Or like prayer,—hedging in song
What one should plainly say:
A white stain spreads within the purpling sky.