Page:The Collected Poems of Hart Crane.djvu/15

Among distant chiming buoys — adrift. The sky,
Cool feathery fold, suspends, distills
This wavering slumber. . . . Slowly —
Immemorially the window, half-covered chair
Asks nothing but this sheath of pallid air.
 
And you beside me, blessèd now while sirens
Sing to us, stealthily weave us into day —
Serenely now, before day claims our eyes
Your cool arms murmurously about me lay.

While myriad snowy hands are clustering at the panes —
 
              your hands within my hands are deeds;
              my tongue upon your throat — singing
              arms close; eyes wide, undoubtful
                                  dark
                                          drink the dawn —
              a forest shudders in your hair!
 
The window goes blond slowly. Frostily clears.
From Cyclopean towers across Manhattan waters
— Two — three bright window-eyes aglitter, disk
The sun, released — aloft with cold gulls hither.
 
The fog leans one last moment on the sill.
Under the mistletoe of dreams, a star —
As though to join us at some distant hill —
Turns in the waking west and goes to sleep.