To sing across the break - of heart, of light,
of season - to stitch, beyond all seisin,
new day-fires to the ashes of a night,
for generation, not for our pleasin'.
But let all know, though come late frost and snow,
a diamond drill will crack you out unstill,
kit you out iron, 'do ray' you so,
annunciation undeniable.
I think he thinks he sings 'em from the egg,
begins in rainy dusks of few degrees,
spills out casket-riches, never to beg,
intricately bordering reveries.
Oh, we may cry to realize we were dead.
Cock me your eye: "What? Was't something I said?"
