  Cloud-made mountains towered, Beckoning to me; Visionary triremes Talked about the sea.... There were strings of camels On the Tunis sands.... There were certain cities Holding out their hands.... Mine the choice that fettered Lips to fountain brim; Timed the droning transits— Bees in gardens dim. Thus I pay no tribute, Heed no tallier’s call; Only sound of kisses From a waterfall. Only honey dripping In a hollow tree; First of hour glasses Keeping time for me. Only broken whispers, Tracing themes unsaid; Soft as tread of visions O’er a poppy bed.... |
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