—Where is the blot?
Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same
—Framework which waits for a picture to frame:
What of the leafage, what of the flower?
Roses embowering with nought they embower!
Come then, complete incompletion, O comer,
Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer!
Breathe but one breath
And all that was death
Grows life, grows love,