To disannul a single trifling word,
How many fervent lines must I compose?
A seed of love, in foolishness interred,
Would take a hundred thousand to disclose!
A pittance were a hundred thousand lines
If they could free this spirit’s eloquence;
A field of seed lies dormant and repines
Beneath the dryness of my reticence!
A hundred thousand lines were not enough
To coax each pious seedling into view,
But once we’ve gathered all the fruit thereof,
I know I’ll find another line or two.
(For that in which the shattered sunlight shines
Is surely she who streaks the sky with lines.)
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