Who is a person who is not a shade,

or, if not shade himself, walks paired with one

so tailored and so humorously made,

it renders not in shadow, but in sun?

Embrace our Mother in the lull

between red rest and sable flight.

To sail by one lone coal is dull;

to sail by billion-fire is bright.

And in the springs of endless depth,

acknowledge that deceitful Death

has loveliness to sell, and drink your fill;

for who has stirred in shadows cast

by autumn boughs and not been asked

by shuffling leaves to please be still, still, still?

It is our eldest helm, our blackest heat,

our only nighted sight before we see;

still, into golden gardens we retreat,

across the reaches of a sandy sea,

to see the sunswept honey freely spill—

but starlight is a sweeter nectar still.