Was it noble,
The bitter austerity of desire
Viol to cello, rampant to redoubled
Phaedrus a litter of souls coupled
There was a hillside farm, a steep one. I saw it.
It was slow to
Perish, floating in a mist of white bees.
My face became strange to me.
The world also.
Charioteer of wounds and bleeding,
What herbs might help
My dead beneath the bright wheels of thousands
Of you? Wild thyme
Was a man once. The upshot and noon inclined
The higher still as early Magdalene.