O Sylvan Nymph (Grown Gloriously Bare)

The glass of freedoms, Song out of the soul,

a hushing thing, a man asleep, alone,

and quiet reigns and laughter shall be ours

when finally the Sun tears us apart.

I crunch upon the garden in my bowl,

the foliage and bramble we were told

to plant, for it would rid us of despair,

and loose some sovereign Song into the air.

Now frost, she climbs the harvest and she waits,

and I sleep by the fire, by that gate

into a rapture softer than your eyes,

though nothing can evade me like their lies.

I sing my Songs alone when you are gone,

out in the back, and thinking, though on what

I do not know, nor do I wish to, dear:

I want the silver tale of a tear.

I want the Music strummed upon the lyre,

the gape and swirl of godliness and fire,

when you are come with harvests and your neck

is ravaged by my kisses, harsh and wet.

Our life here isn’t idle, nor is strong.

It is at ease and rest only so long

and insofar as borders aren't raised

between the soul of man and fresh forays.