Oh faculty of mine you keep
like a bit on a painted horse,
for as you spin,
your markings thin,
and life resumes its course.
So will showers grace these grounds and darling buds will bloom
and heat will rise to dry the cries that nurse the trodden womb.
So soft were eyes that mirrored skies
encased in what would die,
clutching wings of waxen strings
assuming he could fly.
The ghost of the willow warbler’s cry
will clip the snoring streams
as by its coo, will shock the yew
to mend the fading seams.