—As if San Juan sang aloud

until his song became whatever

drew my sight: the sailing cloud:

the Sea that rushes on forever,

and the Sun that makes it proud:

the blue wind tethered to the tree

grazing the poppies by my side—

the wind so blue you cannot see,

so light and swift you cannot ride!

the City White, above the air,

(the City where I long to go)

and the sunbeams playing there

as windblown threads of golden hair

are scattered on a nape of snow.