-
- There is a mystery with wings
- so close about your head it sings
- or starts the pigeons when it rings
- from sun-drenched towers with
- their bells; the caper at the
- start of things, the lilt that's
- hidden in the strings, before
- it's touched, the lyre sings!
- As though each blossom were
- a lute, and sound could
- bend your soul with fruit!
- To grasp that being is, is flame
- that leaps up from the leafy frame
- like vineyards in the sun and rain;
- the fragrance of the sweetest plot,
- that anything should be at all
- and nothingness in not!
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