Three Poems

The stream that runs
Under the earth and is the stream of death
Is also that of life: without
Its sombre unheard flow
What pulse would beat here or what ghost
Re-visit? Where
The sparkling shapes come tumbling from the mouth
Of that dark cave into the light of day
The living are, and see
The splash and laughter of their ecstasy:
No sound. Imagination only made
That single figure dancing in the shade,
Naked as air, and it is she who slides
Into the mind and eats the heart away.
Turn back the spring
...