Dear-hood fantasias of mid-year which drenched ivies
Wrought calm and the chaos its welter tracèd waste,
And whistling found each dire leaf fell'n shrivling eaves
They rushed from thought and thought they plowed; on air defaced
Was all. A goddess in her mountainous abode
Waited, let change succumb effects from birth to wake
A trembling sense of awe every morsel betrothed
And wagered, 'I decide not, although, one retakes
His language more 'n storm, Bugsong Hangin embattled,'
Diviner to a mound as home mining vespers,
But not without grandiloquence his overworld
Broken sharper have I looked 'hind this peak darker,
Thornier. O you men, and your heroes in love --
A blade of grass a spade 'fore spades are fronds thereof.
