Grey-Marbled Matter
Ten yards the river running deep,
ten thousand pales of blue.
Serene, serene, the dew-drawn stream,
yet not a shade of you.
Our moon lies splayed in boney hues --
with star-struck eye she sees
all things which grew from all which true;
she yet could not see me.
For she cannot look inwardly,
the river never glass --
rushing, rushing, rapidly,
they never thought to ask.