The soldierness of your astronomy
so gentle hungries in my panging blue,
it shivers the metal mail, unrusting you,
unresting in the owlest leaves of me.

Pitier velvets, trembler sheets of glass,
more forest bloods, of piner hills bereft,
never endeared a dawn; nor fawned a theft
with sharper slenders from more willing grass.

O fain would I elfing go, and bladeful sleep
amid the winter-bell's unthroated soft,
never to sweet again your ladly cry,

if bellward be your summer's lively-keep;
and wolfen salt that cheeks your lash aloft
were petal-dreamt upon the elfer's eye.