Page:Eclogues; a book of poems.djvu/32

 ÉTUDE

THAT WHITE HAND poised

Above the ivory keys

Will soon descend to

Shatter

The equable surface of my reverie.

To what abortion

Will the silence give birth ?

Noon of moist heat and the moan

Of raping bees,

And light like a sluice of molten gold

On the satiate, petitioning leaves.

In yellow fields

Mute agony of reapers.

Does the metallic horizon

Give release ?

Well, higher,

against the wider void the immaculate

angels of lust

Lean

on the swanbreasts of heaven.

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