my father moved through dooms of love through sames of am through haves of give, singing each morning out of each night my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where turned at his glance to shining here; that if(so timid air is firm) under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which floats the first who, his april touch drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep my father's fingers brought her sleep: vainly no smallest voice might cry for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea my father moved through griefs of joy; praising a forehead called the moon singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure a heart of star by him could steer and pure so now and now so yes the wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer's keen beyond conceiving mind of sun will stand, so strictly(over utmost him so hugely)stood my father's dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood: no hungry man but wished him food; no cripple wouldn't creep one mile uphill to only see him smile.
Scorning the pomp of must and shall my father moved through dooms of feel; his anger was as right as rain his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend less humbly wealth to foe and friend than he to foolish and to wise offered immeasurable is
proudly and(by octobering flame beckoned)as earth will downward climb, so naked for immortal work his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread: no liar looked him in the head; if every friend became his foe he'd laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we, singing each new leaf out of each tree (and every child was sure that spring danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share, let blood and flesh be mud and mire, scheming imagine,passion willed, freedom a drug that's bought and sold
giving to steal and cruel kind, a heart to fear,to doubt a mind, to differ a disease of same, conform the pinnacle of am
though dull were all we taste as bright, bitter all utterly things sweet, maggoty minus and dumb death all we inherit,all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth -I say though hate were why men breathe- because my father lived his soul love is the whole and more than all
My love
my love thy hair is one kingdom the king whereof is darkness thy forehead is a flight of flowers thy head is a quick forest filled with sleeping birds thy breasts are swarms of white bees upon the bough of thy body thy body to me is April in those armpits is the approach of spring thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot of kings they are the striking of a good minstrel between them is always a pleasant song my love thy head is a casket of the cool jewel of thy mind the hair of thy head is one warrior innocent of defeat thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army with victory and with trumpets thy legs are the trees of dreaming whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness thy lips are satraps in scarlet in whose kiss is the combinings of kings thy wrists are holy which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases of silver in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes thy eyes are the betrayal of bells comprehended through incense
