Whistle 

There is the Face, whose ghosts we are; And the Flower, of which we love Never a tear, but only Grief; Songs in Song shall disappear; For hearts, Immutability; Thunders the Everlasting Sea! And my laughter, and my pain, And all lovely things, they say, Miri's laugh, Teipo's feet, Stars and sunlight.html">sunlight there shall meet, And Teura's braided hair.html">hair; And white birds in the dark ravine, And jewels, and evening's after-green, Mamua, your lovelier head! Under the ferns, of crumbling stuff, All time-entangled human love. Divinely down.html">down the scented shade, And moons are lost in endless Day. Where there are neither heads nor flowers? The palms, and sunlight, and the south; When our mouths are one with Mouth. . . . `Tau here', Mamua, Hear the calling of the moon, About the idle warm lagoon. Down the dark, the flowered way, And in the water's soft caress, Mamua, until the day. Pursuing down the soundless deep Or floating lazy, half-asleep. Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call, And faces individual, There's little comfort in the wise. Retrospect In your arms was still delight, And thoughts of you, I do remember, Were dark clouds in a moonless sky. Penetrative, remote, and rare, And, as the bird, it left no trace In your stupidity I found All about you was the light Desire was the unrisen sun, With tree.html">tree whispering to tree, Wisdom slept within your hair, And, in the flowing of your dress, And when you thought, it seemed to me, About the slight world you had known Silence, in which all songs have died! .

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