Works

I

Come up, dear chosen morning, come,
Blessing the air with light,
And bid the sky repent of being dark:
Let all the spaces round the world be white,
And give the earth her green again....

[A quay with vessels moored]


Thomas:

To India! Yea, here I may take ship;
From here the courses go over the seas,
Along which the intent prows wonderfully...

The sun drew off at last his piercing fires.
Over the stale warm air, dull as a pond
And moveless in the grey quieted street,
Blue magic of a summer evening glowed....