A little music

Since it is evening,

let us invent

love's undiscovered

continent.

What shall we steer by,

having no chart

but the deliberate

fraud of the heart?

How shall we find it?

Beyond what keys

of boyhood's Spanish

piracies,

false Eldorados

dim with the tears

of beauty, the last

of the buccaneers?

Since it is evening,

let us design

what shall be utterly

yours and mine.

There will be nothing

that ever before

beckoned the sail

or from any shore.

Trees shall be greener

by mountains more pale,

thrushes outsinging

the nightingale,

flowers now butterflies,

now in the grass,

suddenly quiet

as painted glass,

and fishes of emerald

dive for the moon,

whose silver is stained

by the peacock lagoon.

Since it is evening,

and sailing weather,

let us set out

for the dream together;

set for the landfall,

where love and verse

enfranchise forever

the travellers.