One Sundry Thing

As the sycamore makes one thing

of the wind, and the birch another . . .

as these roses, four kinds of roses,

related in scent, yet as different

as their colors, make in the vase

out of their difference one fragrance . . .

so in your moods by the gamut

of glances, the narrow yet infinitely

many diaphason of breath, you make

one sundry thing of the air. And I

by the strength of my senses, great

folly of love that will lead me

whence the hardihood of its caprice

desires, I dare it, this one sundry

thing of the air. And I hold it

within me as I move in the clear

bewilderment like mirrors of its mansion

as the sycamore-its hackles tingling,

deepening with the scent it is

bringing out of itself in the wind-

moves through the wind that radiantly

moves inside it. Linger, I cry,

in this tower, improvised as the flare

of my breathing, as the patterns

sheaved of the birch and the sycamore

in the curious wind, in this headlong

tower of my tuning, this valorous air

that swells through me, bowers round

for the person of you it supports,

enlarged in the song you sing forth.

So moved, I would hold you,

a racing-the leaves more fluttered

than fauns-as of trees deeply rooted,

clouds anchored, massive, ever moving,

the mountains are, I still at last

in the tempest birch- and sycamore-bruited.