Legend

As silent as a mirror is believed

Realities plunge in silence by . . .

I am not ready for repentance;

Nor to match regrets. For the moth

Bends no more than the still

Imploring flame. And tremorous

In the white falling flakes

Kisses are,—

The only worth all granting.

It is to be learned—

This cleaving and this burning,

But only by the one who

Spends out himself again.

Twice and twice

(Again the smoking souvenir,

Bleeding eidolon!) and yet again.

Until the bright logic is won

Unwhispering as a mirror

Is believed.

Then, drop by caustic drop, a perfect cry

Shall string some constant harmony,—

Relentless caper for all those who step

The legend of their youth into the noon.