Meet between the rubbish of long—long December,
And, beware at the eve, longing for the land,
Claiming the acre, ascending the indulging dream,
Buried by the past cold, which bygone all ripe time.
Winter deceived once again, child, there is no snow,
That pokerish linen interlaces rocks and stardust;
May it bring the recherché in the form of an old voice, an old friend.
Though perhaps the innocence is the carved love,
Under the Vally of a cold, faint mutter,
For when will it be time? When?
I shall listen, but that is all, to the fresh raw convictions,
Of a credence in Winter’s crevice, opening the hall,
Its arch flickering at the floor’s luster, trodden with footfall.
The gates come forth, with all thought, with all lips,
That say, Winter is here, pinned with a glint;
They drink tea in coffee mugs, silently talking,
Of a dream of all dreams (with three pillows lax),
Waiting for the eve, longing for the day.
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Pseudopsychosis. 