The poet who never suffers,
Writes his poems for you,
Who dreams for whole days, and is free of suffering, too.
You wake from a summer dream, which began at twelve o clock—
When the tree’s shadow climbed the moss on the mossy rock—
You wake from your sunny sleep
And hear the distant sounds of wandering sheep,
And find all changed: darkness devouring the flock;
Deep in shadow, tree and rock;
The workers home from work,
And the moon’s cunning
Still in the running.
The poet who never suffers,
Writes his poems for you,
The moon, new,
And you, barely there,
Combing your langorous hair
As the dawn sees
Your hair in a long tease
Against the sunlight flickering in
Where you and the poem patiently begin
With a sigh in the garden,
And, upon the hill,
You going about, wherever you will.
And the misty sun, like a wall,
Covers all.
