Picture collage by Theo ZWINDERMAN


THOMAS, Dylan


Notes On The Art Of Poetry

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on

in the world between the covers of books,

such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,

such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,

such and so many blinding bright lights,

splashing all over the pages

in a million bits and pieces

all of which were words, words, words,

and each of which were alive forever

in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

Especially when the October wind

Especially when the October wind

With frosty fingers punishes my hair,

Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire

And cast a shadow crab upon the land,

By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,

Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,

My busy heart who shudders as she talks

Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark

On the horizon walking like the trees

The wordy shapes of women, and the rows

Of the star-gestured children in the park.

Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,

Some of the oaken voices, from the roots

Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,

Some let me make you of the water's speeches.

Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock

Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning

Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning

And tells the windy weather in the cock.

Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;

The signal grass that tells me all I know

Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.

Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Especially when the October wind

(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,

The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)

With fists of turnips punishes the land,

Some let me make you of the heartless words.

The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry

Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.

By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

Because the Pleasure

Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires,

Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?

Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer

The supper and knives of a mood.

In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year

That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms,

An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires,

Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food,

Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair

In a wind that plucked a goose,

Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs,

Rounds to look at the red, wagged root.

Because there stands, one story out of the bum city,

That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea

Secretly in statuary,

Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street,

Not spin to stare at an old year

Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries

Like the mauled pictures of boys?

The salt person and blasted place

I furnish with the meat of a fable;

If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble

An upright man in the antipodes

Or spray-based and rock-chested sea:

Over the past table I repeat this present grace.

When all my five and country senses see

When all my five and country senses see

The fingers will forget green thumbs and mark

How, through the halfmoon's vegetable eye,

Husk of young stars and handfull zodiac,

Love in the frost is pared and wintered by,

The whispering ears will watch love drummed away

Down breeze and shell to a discordant beach,

And, lashed to syllables, the lynx tongue cry

That her fond wounds are mended bitterly.

My nostrils see her breath burn like a bush.

My one and noble heart has witnesses

In all love's countries, that will grope awake;

And when blind sleep drops on the spying senses,

The heart is sensual, though five eyes break.

Find Meat On Bones

Find meat on bones that soon have none,

And drink in the two milked crags,

The merriest marrow and the dregs

Before the ladies' breasts are hags

And the limbs are torn.

Disturb no winding-sheets, my son,

But when the ladies are cold as stone

Then hang a ram rose over the rags.

'Rebel against the binding moon

And the parliament of sky,

The kingcrafts of the wicked sea,

Autocracy of night and day,

Dictatorship of sun.

Rebel against the flesh and bone,

The word of the blood, the wily skin,

And the maggot no man can slay.'

'The thirst is quenched, the hunger gone,

And my heart is cracked across;

My face is haggard in the glass,

My lips are withered with a kiss,

My breasts are thin.

A merry girl took me for man,

I laid her down and told her sin,

And put beside her a ram rose.

'The maggot that no man can kill

And the man no rope can hang

Rebel against my father's dream

That out of a bower of red swine

Howls the foul fiend to heel.

I cannot murder, like a fool,

Season and sunshine, grace and girl,

Nor can I smother the sweet waking.'

Black night still ministers the moon,

And the sky lays down her laws,

The sea speaks in a kingly voice,

Light and dark are no enemies

But one companion.

'War on the spider and the wren!

War on the destiny of man!

Doom on the sun!'

Before Death takes you, O take back this.

This Bread I Break

This bread I break was once the oat,

This wine upon a foreign tree

Plunged in its fruit;

Man in the day or wine at night

Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy.

Once in this time wine the summer blood

Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine,

Once in this bread

The oat was merry in the wind;

Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.

This flesh you break, this blood you let

Make desolation in the vein,

Were oat and grape

Born of the sensual root and sap;

My wine you drink, my bread you snap.

I, In My Intricate Image

II

They climb the country pinnacle,

Twelve winds encounter by the white host at pasture,

Corner the mounted meadows in the hill corral;

They see the squirrel stumble,

The haring snail go giddily round the flower,

A quarrel of weathers and trees in the windy spiral.

As they dive, the dust settles,

The cadaverous gravels, falls thick and steadily,

The highroad of water where the seabear and mackerel

Turn the long sea arterial

Turning a petrol face blind to the enemy

Turning the riderless dead by the channel wall.

(Death instrumental,

Splitting the long eye open, and the spiral turnkey,

Your corkscrew grave centred in navel and nipple,

The neck of the nostril,

Under the mask and the ether, they making bloody

The tray of knives, the antiseptic funeral;

Bring out the black patrol,

Your monstrous officers and the decaying army,

The sexton sentinel, garrisoned under thistles,

A cock-on-a-dunghill

Crowing to Lazarus the morning is vanity,

Dust be your saviour under the conjured soil.)

As they drown, the chime travels,

Sweetly the diver's bell in the steeple of spindrift

Rings out the Dead Sea scale;

And, clapped in water till the triton dangles,

Strung by the flaxen whale-weed, from the hangman's raft,

Hear they the salt glass breakers and the tongues of burial.

(Turn the sea-spindle lateral,

The grooved land rotating, that the stylus of lightning

Dazzle this face of voices on the moon-turned table,

Let the wax disk babble

Shames and the damp dishonours, the relic scraping.

These are your years' recorders. The circular world stands still.)

When Once The Twilight Locks No Longer

When once the twilight locks no longer

Locked in the long worm of my finger

Nor damned the sea that sped about my fist,

The mouth of time sucked, like a sponge,

The milky acid on each hinge,

And swallowed dry the waters of the breast.

When the galactic sea was sucked

And all the dry seabed unlocked,

I sent my creature scouting on the globe,

That globe itself of hair and bone

That, sewn to me by nerve and brain,

Had stringed my flask of matter to his rib.

My fuses are timed to charge his heart,

He blew like powder to the light

And held a little sabbath with the sun,

But when the stars, assuming shape,

Drew in his eyes the straws of sleep

He drowned his father's magics in a dream.

All issue armoured, of the grave,

The redhaired cancer still alive,

The cataracted eyes that filmed their cloth;

Some dead undid their bushy jaws,

And bags of blood let out their flies;

He had by heart the Christ-cross-row of death.

Sleep navigates the tides of time;

The dry Sargasso of the tomb

Gives up its dead to such a working sea;

And sleep rolls mute above the beds

Where fishes' food is fed the shades

Who periscope through flowers to the sky.

When once the twilight screws were turned,

And mother milk was stiff as sand,

I sent my own ambassador to light;

By trick or chance he fell asleep

And conjured up a carcass shape

To rob me of my fluids in his heart.

Awake, my sleeper, to the sun,

A worker in the morning town,

And leave the poppied pickthank where he lies;

The fences of the light are down,

All but the briskest riders thrown

And worlds hang on the trees.

Ears In The Turrets Hear

Ears in the turrets hear

Hands grumble on the door,

Eyes in the gables see

The fingers at the locks.

Shall I unbolt or stay

Alone till the day I die

Unseen by stranger-eyes

In this white house?

Hands, hold you poison or grapes?

Beyond this island bound

By a thin sea of flesh

And a bone coast,

The land lies out of sound

And the hills out of mind.

No birds or flying fish

Disturbs this island's rest.

Ears in this island hear

The wind pass like a fire,

Eyes in this island see

Ships anchor off the bay.

Shall I run to the ships

With the wind in my hair,

Or stay till the day I die

And welcome no sailor?

Ships, hold you poison or grapes?

Hands grumble on the door,

Ships anchor off the bay,

Rain beats the sand and slates.

Shall I let in the stranger,

Shall I welcome the sailor,

Or stay till the day I die?

Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships,

Hold you poison or grapes?

I Fellowed Sleep

I fellowed sleep who kissed me in the brain,

Let fall the tear of time; the sleeper's eye,

Shifting to light, turned on me like a moon.

So, planning-heeled, I flew along my man

And dropped on dreaming and the upward sky.

I fled the earth and, naked, climbed the weather,

Reaching a second ground far from the stars;

And there we wept I and a ghostly other,

My mothers-eyed, upon the tops of trees;

I fled that ground as lightly as a feather.

'My fathers' globe knocks on its nave and sings.'

'This that we tread was, too, your father's land.'

'But this we tread bears the angelic gangs

Sweet are their fathered faces in their wings.'

'These are but dreaming men. Breathe, and they fade.'

Faded my elbow ghost, the mothers-eyed,

As, blowing on the angels, I was lost

On that cloud coast to each grave-grabbing shade;

I blew the dreaming fellows to their bed

Where still they sleep unknowing of their ghost.

Then all the matter of the living air

Raised up a voice, and, climbing on the words,

I spelt my vision with a hand and hair,

How light the sleeping on this soily star,

How deep the waking in the worlded clouds.

There grows the hours' ladder to the sun,

Each rung a love or losing to the last,

The inches monkeyed by the blood of man.

And old, mad man still climbing in his ghost,

My fathers' ghost is climbing in the rain.

Here In This Spring

Here in this spring, stars float along the void;

Here in this ornamental winter

Down pelts the naked weather;

This summer buries a spring bird.

Symbols are selected from the years'

Slow rounding of four seasons' coasts,

In autumn teach three seasons' fires

And four birds' notes.

I should tell summer from the trees, the worms

Tell, if at all, the winter's storms

Or the funeral of the sun;

I should learn spring by the cuckooing,

And the slug should teach me destruction.

A worm tells summer better than the clock,

The slug's a living calendar of days;

What shall it tell me if a timeless insect

Says the world wears away?

Shall Gods Be Said To Thump The Clouds

Shall gods be said to thump the clouds

When clouds are cursed by thunder,

Be said to weep when weather howls?

Shall rainbows be their tunics' colour?

When it is rain where are the gods?

Shall it be said they sprinkle water

From garden cans, or free the floods?

Shall it be said that, venuswise,

An old god's dugs are pressed and pricked,

The wet night scolds me like a nurse?

It shall be said that gods are stone.

Shall a dropped stone drum on the ground,

Flung gravel chime? Let the stones speak

With tongues that talk all tongues.

Altarwise by owl-light IV

What is the metre of the dictionary?

The size of genesis? the short spark’s gender?

Shade without shape? the shape of Pharaoh’s echo?

(My shape of age nagging the wounded whisper).

Which sixth of wind blew out the burning gentry?

(Questions are hunchbacks to the poker marrow).

What of a bamboo man among your acres?

Corset the boneyards for a crooked boy?

Button your bodice on a hump of splinters,

My camel’s eyes will needle through the shroud.

Love’s reflection of the mushroom features,

Stills snapped by night in the bread-sided field,

Once close-up smiling in the wall of pictures,

Arc-lamped thrown back upon the cutting flood.

Altarwise by owl-light V

And from the windy West came two-gunned Gabriel,

From Jesu’s sleeve trumped up the king of spots,

The sheath-decked jacks, queen with a shuffled heart;

Said the fake gentleman in suit of spades,

Black-tongued and tipsy from salvation’s bottle.

Rose my Byzantine Adam in the night.

For loss of blood I fell on Ishmael’s plain,

Under the milky mushrooms slew my hunger,

A climbing sea of Asia had me down

And Jonah’s Moby snatched me by the hair,

Cross-stroked salt Adam to the frozen angel

Pin-legged on pole-hills with a black medusa

By waste seas where the white bear quoted Virgil

And sirens singing from our Lady’s sea-straw.

Fern Hill

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs

About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,

The night above the dingle starry,

Time let me hail and climb

Golden in the heydays of his eyes,

And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns

And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves

Trail with daisies and barley

Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns

About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,

In the sun that is young once only,

Time let me play and be

Golden in the mercy of his means,

And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves

Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,

And the sabbath rang slowly

In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay

Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air

And playing, lovely and watery

And fire green as grass.

And nightly under the simple stars

As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,

All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars

Flying with the ricks, and the horses

Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all

Shining, it was Adam and maiden,

The sky gathered again

And the sun grew round that very day.

So it must have been after the birth of the simple light

In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm

Out of the whinnying green stable

On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house

Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,

In the sun born over and over,

I ran my heedless ways,

My wishes raced through the house high hay

And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows

In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs

Before the children green and golden

Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me

Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,

In the moon that is always rising,

Nor that riding to sleep

I should hear him fly with the high fields

And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

Time held me green and dying

Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

O make me a mask

O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies

Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws

Rape and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,

Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies

The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece,

The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies,

Shaped in old armour and oak the countenance of a dunce

To shield the glistening brain and blunt the examiners,

And a tear-stained widower grief drooped from the lashes

To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive

Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses

By the curve of the nude mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.

In My Craft Or Sullen Art

In my craft or sullen art

Exercised in the still night

When only the moon rages

And the lovers lie abed

With all their griefs in their arms

I labour by singing light

Not for ambition or bread

Or the strut and trade of charms

On the ivory stages

But for the common wages

Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart

From the raging moon I write

On these spindrift pages

Nor for the towering dead

With their nightingales and psalms

But for the lovers, their arms

Round the griefs of the ages,

Who pay no praise or wages

Nor heed my craft or art.

Love In The Asylum

A stranger has come

To share my room in the house not right in the head,

A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.

Strait in the mazed bed

She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,

At large as the dead,

Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed

Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,

Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust

Yet raves at her will

On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last

I may without fail

Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.

Our eunuch dreams

I

Our eunuch dreams, all seedless in the light,

Of light and love the tempers of the heart,

Whack their boys' limbs,

And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,

Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night

Fold in their arms.

The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds,

When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm,

The bones of men, the broken in their beds,

By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.

II

In this our age the gunman and his moll

Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel,

Strange to our solid eye,

And speak their midnight nothings as they swell;

When cameras shut they hurry to their hole

down in the yard of day.

They dance between their arclamps and our skull,

Impose their shots, showing the nights away;

We watch the show of shadows kiss or kill

Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.

III

Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which

Shall fall awake when cures and their itch

Raise up this red-eyed earth?

Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch,

The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich,

Or drive the night-geared forth.

The photograph is married to the eye,

Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth;

The dream has sucked the sleeper of his faith

That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.

IV

This is the world; the lying likeness of

Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move

Loving and being loth;

The dream that kicks the buried from their sack

And lets their trash be honoured as the quick.

This is the world. Have faith.

For we shall be a shouter like the cock,

Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack

The image from the plates;

And we shall be fit fellows for a life,

And who remains shall flower as they love,

Praise to our faring hearts.

Light breaks where no sun shines

Light breaks where no sun shines;

Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart

Push in their tides;

And, broken ghosts with glowworms in their heads,

The things of light

File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.

A candle in the thighs

Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;

Where no seed stirs,

The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,

Bright as a fig;

Where no wax is, the candle shows it's hairs.

Dawn breaks behind the eyes;

From poles of skull and toe the windy blood

Slides like a sea;

Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky

Spout to the rod

Divining in a smile the oil of tears.

Night in the sockets rounds,

Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes;

Day lights the bone;

Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin

The winter's robes;

The film of spring is hanging from the lids.

Light breaks on secret lots,

On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;

When logics die,

The secret of the soil grows through the eye,

And blood jumps in the sun;

Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.

Vision and Prayer I

Who

Are you

Who is born

In the next room

So loud to my own

That I can hear the womb

Opening and the dark run

Over the ghost and the dropped son

Behind the wall thin as a wren's bone?

In the birth bloody room unknown

To the burn and turn of time

And the heart print of man

Bows no baptism

But dark alone

Blessing on

The wild

Child.



Vison and Prayer II

I turn the corner of prayer and burn

In a blessing of the sudden

Sun. In the name of the damned

I would turn back and run

To the hidden land

But the loud sun

Christens down

The sky.

I

Am found.

O let him

Scald me and drown

Me in his world's wound

His lightning answers my

Cry. My voice burns in his hand.

Now I am lost in the blinding

One. The sun roars at the prayer's end.

A Winter's Tale

It is a winter's tale

That the snow blind twilight ferries over the lakes

And floating fields from the farm in the cup of the vales,

Gliding windless through the hand folded flakes,

The pale breath of cattle at the stealthy sail,

And the stars falling cold,

And the smell of hay in the snow, and the far owl

Warning among the folds, and the frozen hold

Flocked with the sheep white smoke of the farm house cowl

In the river wended vales where the tale was told.

Once when the world turned old

On a star of faith pure as the drifting bread,

As the food and flames of the snow, a man unrolled

The scrolls of fire that burned in his heart and head,

Torn and alone in a farm house in a fold

Of fields. And burning then

In his firelit island ringed by the winged snow

And the dung hills white as wool and the hen

Roosts sleeping chill till the flame of the cock crow

Combs through the mantled yards and the morning men

Stumble out with their spades,

The cattle stirring, the mousing cat stepping shy,

The puffed birds hopping and hunting, the milkmaids

Gentle in their clogs over the fallen sky,

And all the woken farm at its white trades,

He knelt, he wept, he prayed,

By the spit and the black pot in the log bright light

And the cup and the cut bread in the dancing shade,

In the muffled house, in the quick of night,

At the point of love, forsaken and afraid.

He knelt on the cold stones,

He wept form the crest of grief, he prayed to the veiled sky

May his hunger go howling on bare white bones

Past the statues of the stables and the sky roofed sties

And the duck pond glass and the blinding byres alone

Into the home of prayers

And fires where he should prowl down the cloud

Of his snow blind love and rush in the white lairs.

His naked need struck him howling and bowed

Though no sound flowed down the hand folded air

But only the wind strung

Hunger of birds in the fields of the bread of water, tossed

In high corn and the harvest melting on their tongues.

And his nameless need bound him burning and lost

When cold as snow he should run the wended vales among

The rivers mouthed in night,

And drown in the drifts of his need, and lie curled caught

In the always desiring centre of the white

Inhuman cradle and the bride bed forever sought

By the believer lost and the hurled outcast of light.

Deliver him, he cried,

By losing him all in love, and cast his need

Alone and naked in the engulfing bride,

Never to flourish in the fields of the white seed

Or flower under the time dying flesh astride.

Listen. The minstrels sing

In the departed villages. The nightingale,

Dust in the buried wood, flies on the grains of her wings

And spells on the winds of the dead his winter's tale.

The voice of the dust of water from the withered spring

Is telling. The wizened

Stream with bells and baying water bounds. The dew rings

On the gristed leaves and the long gone glistening

Parish of snow. The carved mouths in the rock are wind swept strings.

Time sings through the intricately dead snow drop. Listen.

It was a hand or sound

In the long ago land that glided the dark door wide

And there outside on the bread of the ground

A she bird rose and rayed like a burning bride.

A she bird dawned, and her breast with snow and scarlet downed.

Look. And the dancers move

On the departed, snow bushed green, wanton in moon light

As a dust of pigeons. Exulting, the grave hooved

Horses, centaur dead, turn and tread the drenched white

Paddocks in the farms of birds. The dead oak walks for love.

The carved limbs in the rock

Leap, as to trumpets. Calligraphy of the old

Leaves is dancing. Lines of age on the stones weave in a flock.

And the harp shaped voice of the water's dust plucks in a fold

Of fields. For love, the long ago she bird rises. Look.

And the wild wings were raised

Above her folded head, and the soft feathered voice

Was flying through the house as though the she bird praised

And all the elements of the slow fall rejoiced

That a man knelt alone in the cup of the vales,

In the mantle and calm,

By the spit and the black pot in the log bright light.

And the sky of birds in the plumed voice charmed

Him up and he ran like a wind after the kindling flight

Past the blind barns and byres of the windless farm.

In the poles of the year

When black birds died like priests in the cloaked hedge row

And over the cloth of counties the far hills rode near,

Under the one leaved trees ran a scarecrow of snow

And fast through the drifts of the thickets antlered like deer,

Rags and prayers down the knee-

Deep hillocks and loud on the numbed lakes,

All night lost and long wading in the wake of the she-

Bird through the times and lands and tribes of the slow flakes.

Listen and look where she sails the goose plucked sea,

The sky, the bird, the bride,

The cloud, the need, the planted stars, the joy beyond

The fields of seed and the time dying flesh astride,

The heavens, the heaven, the grave, the burning font.

In the far ago land the door of his death glided wide,

And the bird descended.

On a bread white hill over the cupped farm

And the lakes and floating fields and the river wended

Vales where he prayed to come to the last harm

And the home of prayers and fires, the tale ended.

The dancing perishes

On the white, no longer growing green, and, minstrel dead,

The singing breaks in the snow shoed villages of wishes

That once cut the figures of birds on the deep bread

And over the glazed lakes skated the shapes of fishes

Flying. The rite is shorn

Of nightingale and centaur dead horse. The springs wither

Back. Lines of age sleep on the stones till trumpeting dawn.

Exultation lies down. Time buries the spring weather

That belled and bounded with the fossil and the dew reborn.

For the bird lay bedded

In a choir of wings, as though she slept or died,

And the wings glided wide and he was hymned and wedded,

And through the thighs of the engulfing bride,

The woman breasted and the heaven headed

Bird, he was brought low,

Burning in the bride bed of love, in the whirl-

Pool at the wanting centre, in the folds

Of paradise, in the spun bud of the world.

And she rose with him flowering in her melting snow.