Rhyme

Rhyme

in your clear chime

we hear

ringing, far-off and clear,

in beauty's fairy granges

at evensong the changes

and swells

and of her lost elfin-bells.

You

glimmering through,

astir,

wander a lamplighter,

kindling that lamp and this

of long-quenched memories

with blaze

of their auto-da-fés.

Numbers

the soul remembers,

(and moved among them when

the Sons of Morning sung them)

you echo, while the dim

shadow of Seraphim

half floats

among your muted notes.

Tamer

of love's sweet grammar

you parse,

and change, his nouns to stars,

his verbs you conjugate,

so that they vanish straight

from time,

and lift - a moonlit paradeigm.

Rhyme

by your clear chime

we climb,

clean out of space and time,

and the small earth behind us

can neither lose nor find us,

set free in your eternity.