November 21, 2017

The wind that wraps itself
Into the limb of night
Has brought this leaf
Straying to my window,
As if intending some watery trade
To me as I once vainly to your lips,
Those that I remember—
Fragrant artificer of clouds
By whose power might’ve been converted
How many storms’ swift scimitar
To rustles and mere murmurs of sleep.
But your barren inclination with my disaster matched
Made of inarticulate and too subtle force nothing.
Yet not nothing has my thought condensed
In the misty chamber of alleviated time
To signification beyond all trails’ decay
Behind morbid, torrential weather...
How distant you are to this leaf
Which I know in wending dream will ease away,
And from my mind’s false assignment depart—
Tomorrow, unseen, pressed out in the shade,
Richer to have given, not lost, its colors.
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