Third Madrigal

My wand strikes me no joy till loosened weeping

Prints my blue air with clouded beauty lying

In milky pools of silk, the cipolin

Smooth floor his momentary couch, and sighing,

My throaty ocarina blows to win

His hearing, though his madder ear lies sleeping

Among the browny spirals of his curls.

My clouds are grey on black, grey unworn pearls,

No broody moonstone quiet for his sight.

His sun-tipped clouds fly with soft angel golds;

Weathers all raw roam through my cyclone night.

I have long hot skies and cold snows in folds,

No mild green light of spring to weave him laurels.

My future floods be such as angels ford!

Noble sport of the vain cells that overlord

This massive heart with double gorgeous spate,

Now dare I hur! the jewel that drives him far,

Earth moving under beauty's feet, for where I wait

Even that mouth, my music's gate, and war,

My clouds in rains hold mirrored, a wound a word

Struck on my gong my heart, while his live bell

Chimes as he sleeps in my clouds' citadel.

My sea rolled tremor pierce his heaven's ear,

Plunge to his dream my restless echo's flash,

And wandering draw this source of song more near,

Made of so known a substance as the flesh,

Quick with his dream, live from my vision's shell . . .

His throat and eyes struck open in my room.

Curse my night mourning witch's power and doom!

His pinions stir with throbbing flowers for feathers,

My rains in haloes fall round beauty's head,

May melt my wrist, so a smile hovers and quivers,

Such blossoms blow, his white, his dark, his red,

What artist's steady hand could hold their bloom?

Unloose eyes stare! I breathe his dream's excess,

My clouds rain curtains, my vision's jewel is his.