By the Stream

Here in a foam of light I gather
Grain on reflected grain of matter
Greenly floating in lucent water
Downstream, carving the soft stream’s shoulder,
Winding all chains of light together.

Here is an echo of the sound I wanted
Heard, but hardly, not the heart-ranted
Word, but one that the spring has rented
Bird after bird whose songs have minted
Wood after wood with the word I wanted.

Here is a surf of air I cannot
Swim through; yet, the sea is in it;
Rim of a surfboard seems one minute
Skimming through highest treetops, then it
Dims, limning no sea within it.

Here is a taste of pine, of greenness,
Fresh as the crystal of all clearness:
Flesh is a pining taste for sin, less
Wish than a loss once green within us:
Fish in this stream will yield no Venus.

Here is an odor of fresh water,
Sweet is its blue way over boulder;
Peat has another; so has sulphur.
Heat has no heart. Cool as a silver
Fleet is the heart that smells fresh water.