Oh, ye who gaze with tolerant mein
Upon the song I sing, as tolerantly
I smile with understanding
---At thy understanding!
No music would I lend
That unfamiliar falls upon thee;
Nor would I fashion new words
That flaunt befogged meaning.
I would catch the flesh of some becrimsoned eve,
That flaunts its glories o'er the fields,
Painting the dull paths with roseate splendor,
Bathing the pools of flaming glory,
Making the hedgerows give up their songsters,
Who would plunge into the riotous,
Colorful eve some yellow throat
That hangs beneath a singing beak,
While golden wings beat the blue,
Catching the golden darts that shoot
From the sun's glory and shimmering
In beauty upon its way;
Circling high in the golden bath of glory,
And waiting the monk who followeth eve,
Becapping the hills in dismal cowls,
And stringing Rosaries o'er the paths,
Telling the hours with sad lays---
Stopping the singers' throats
And canting to the moon.
Oh the flesh of such an eve I would
Lay hands upon, and with cunning words
Create it unto a golden ball, which I
May toss unto thee and thou mayst catch and hold
Within thy hands. Yea, and I would make thee
Acquainted with thy acquaintances;
Setting up fellowship and communion---
Where . . . tolerant nods and smirks---
Stalk ungodly hours.
Smile on then, thou chanter
Of doleful lays against my singing!
---I too may smile in toleration.