The bindweed still
Besongs the hill
With throated eyes
Of clearest white.
And sing it will
Till songless chill
Benight the glamor
Of their light.
The bindweed still
Besongs the hill
With throated eyes
Of clearest white.
And sing it will
Till songless chill
Benight the glamor
Of their light.
’Tis a green scene
With many white mouths:
The trumpet-mouths
Of bindweed
Begoddening
The sun-begoldened air.
And the hoverfly
To the fleabane’s eye
Sweets soft songs
I catch nor match.
Yet fleabane’s eye
To hoverfly:
Παντοπόρνη!