Daring, deep do you make the grade:
neither a letter complete nor so inclined
as to chase these clouds now, nor how they fade
into the next; always bowing to never mind
the gap, the swollen, your comely air
with lenses between, making matters bare.
Barres still beam, you prop your foot-faire,
yet mists are still seen as a hire up there.
Will those new sheens be bejeweled like the rest?
What of your promises: the green hillside possessed?
Winged, without, you are gloriously stated: still
wings wrought within tell the taller pension’s will.
I will greet you in the morning, the dusk of your flight
to chase renewed dawns, the changement of delight.