I Spill My Soul

thy fingers make early flowers 
of all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smothness which
sings, saying 
(though love be a day)
do not fear, we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
always
thy moist eyes at kisses are playing,
whose strangeness much
says; singing
(though love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

to be thy lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death, thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing, it shall not stop kissing).

this is the garden:colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing
strong silent greens serenely lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden:pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden.   Time shall surely reap
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

O Thou to whom the musical white spring

offers her lily inextinguishable, 
taught by thy tremulous grace bravely to fling  

Implacable death's mysteriously sable
robe from her redolent shoulders, 
		Thou from whose 
feet reincarnate song suddenly leaping 
flameflung, mounts,inimitably to lose 
herself where the wet stars softly are keeping  

their exquisite dreams -- O Love! upon thy dim 
shrine of intangible commemoration, 
(from whose faint close as some grave languorous hymn  

pledged to illimitable dissipation 
unhurried clouds of incense fleetly roll)  

i spill my bright incalculable soul.