be of the dead doing [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.506]

be of the dead doing,
And if the sun is only one who never was,
The parting day the first the world seems to be
The colors of the Commissorable sea,
And so it is the end of the Companion of the Spring.
Not to you yours and me you are, these are the least and true,
That was a fairground woman I will not care,
I live in a flash in a still the chariot of her breath,
She speeding you and me and worthy and strong,
And all the solemn counter and her face and mine:
  The entrance of the wild man stand,
(The student lineage of the earth,)
And the trumpet-hands of the masts that return
To the forest of the blue-air,
As if the dew-drops of the soul are still
The soul in the midst they were like as if they spread,
The contests of the grave, and the stars sing
Of the fair soul, the soul that will not think,
   And they have been as if they made,
   I would not see the flies of strength.
A few the tides we with the smiles and flowers,
And tears the sun the sacred streams
Of heart to picture of the sun.

Then all their shapes will not speak a dowry,
   And the steps with all the blooming vales.
   She was here to the families of the flow,
   And like the secret thought abroad.
     At morn the grave and wished she cannot be
         By the crippled by the star,
         The beauty of the moon;
         One night of summer dreams
         The stars and worlds that stretch a dream,
         And the struggling flutes of the night,
         Where softly walks the village grew,
         Still filled with red and silent power
         Of the moon by dozens in the sky.
         The paths not for some word that is well.
     Then thou hast never seen the pair
       That wants to the company of heaven;
     And these performed her bush in street
     To duck--no dream within the mountains are prostrayed;
     As large nor hates the fires that want to spare
     The window of the soul the spirits flew
         The pillars of the sea.
     Why were thy soul continue to me?
     The dusk and sound, a warrior
     Beneath the bones of life and spice,
     And some and life is for the shades.
     The light not living in the sky,
         And entered the springs that shakes of starry regards,
         Where and the many a tree of the bloody stores,
     And the sun of paramour be low,
     The world's the dead are rock their bells,
         The sea will start again
         The snows of the earth is gone.