This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out
Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon
To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
She must come now. The grass is in seed and high.
Come now. Those to be born have need
Of the bride, love being a birth, have need to see
And to touch her . . . .
Come now, pearled and pasted, bloomy-leafed,
While the domes resound with chant involving chant.
from "Ghosts as Cocoons"