Say what you will, the matrix of morning is true:
Leafmould masking skeleton leaves from the spring,
Beechleaves opening, white, the light breaking through,
Leafsap shining, green from a forager’s wing.
And
Glory is given: wide as the woodpecker dips,
Dives, recovers in air for a loop of his flight,
Gorse-yellow cables are flung to the stanchion he grips,
Taut, crested, a beacon, beaming and bright.
Spanned
Swallow’s flight falls from a centre: swiftness is pure;
Each dip or ascent from the ground is the arc of a ring,
True to the lark or the woodpecker. Joy must endure
Weight, the recoil of earth’s jettison, straining to sing.
Leaf, fountain and wing, breaks from the hand,
Lost, found, unforgettable, great where it grew.
Yes; but all that in daylight turns on a mind,
Stirring, wakes to a beam forever begun,
Splashed with the milk of earth’s morning, babbles her tongue;
Each is ancestrally copied, true to its kind.
Numberless blossoms break, yet the blossom is one.
Age-furrows darken in man, but the seedlings are young.
Air, weir-water vanishing, never divined,
Nuts, buried, unknown to the beams of the sun,
Rinsed, radiant and wrung,
Plunge to the matrix of morning from which they have sprung:
Splendour in ground descending, grandly designed.
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