Summer 1941 • Vol. III No. 3 Two Poems |

Summer Day

Now the white heron streams in pallid motion Shapeless as snow to this earth's eye, But he in the bright gold light beaming Is motion made all probable. Earth turns, earth seems to turn now Like this far white heron shapeless Flying with drifting above the stream. So earth describes his antique pattern, Proscribes his flight, and sets his limits there. But all devolves from an accident in heaven Some timeless past when a star wanderer struck The spent sun reeling in the skies of gold (As a tramp in a box car shuttles some destiny With the white heron flying, and the earth's turning.) And from that sun then gold-ballooned the earth Like a balloon upheld on the fountain of beams, Watery sunlight returning to no sun's Interior basin, as dream not to its dreamers. Therefore, this white heron is of first summer day Follower of a similar curve As the rose orbit's is, as every nerveless curve In a shadow planet ideal as real With the moveless bird, with my unsp

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