The Poet's Word

Sway, the blades of green —
Cascade, in rustling tones,
Mistrals glide o'er glades,
O'er sands and o'er stones.
But whence the ghost depart?
What calls the whistling moans?
Their pitch dances on the drums,
Sweet warbling rings ear bones,
In song.

Therein — the orbital rounds,
Oscillate atoms and spheres,
That move the airy planes,
Through space and atmospheres,
Conjures zephyrs from the air —
In gales or in gusts appears —
Nobles or peasants at prayer,
Are moved in sacred fears,
In awe.

And the waters rise and fall,
At the whimsy of the moon,
And the paradox of parentage,
But by the mercy of each swoon,
There would be nor I, nor thou,
Nor beauty unfurling a cocoon.
But only for the Poet's word,
A cosmos would ne'er be hewn,
In love.