Low voices coming
Out of the day,
Chirping and humming
Near and away,
Make me a part
Of what you are,
Spill out my heart,
Shake it afar!
Let my soul be
A dust thrown up
To the winds' glee,
In the sea's cup!
There lost and mixed,
There selfless made,
No longer fixed
And casting shade.
This hour must pass
Like all I know;
Yet, while it was,
Fresh was my brow,
My eyelids drooped
With final ease,
I was not cooped
In thought's disease.
So let me rest
This while and deem
That life the best
That's most like dream.
This hot hour is
Of that vague size,
For I see this
Through no clear eyes,
But in a dim
Abandonment
Live in the rim
Of my thought's bent,
And this thought now's
A blade of grass
That not even knows
Hours pass.