gleaming whirl of day,
Lest, reaching for the fingers of love,
I know not which are they,
Lest the dear-lipped multitude,
Kissing me, choke me dead!—

O green eyes in the breakers,
White heave unquieted,
What can I do but dive again, again—again—
To hide my head!

ANNE KNISH
Opus 135

IN a tomb of Argolis,
Under an arch of great stones,
Where my eyes were sightless, groping,
I touched this figment of clay.

     Forgotten vase of immemorial Greece,
Colorless form!
I have entered to the blind dark
Of the tomb where you have slept forever
And with the dreams of my importunate hands
I touch you in the profound darkness.

     You are cold and estranged;
Yet the ends of my fingers cling to your porous surface.
You are thin and very tall;
My palm can cover your mouth.
Your lip curves but a little;
Around your throat
My two hands meet,
And then part as I follow the swelling
Rhythm that downward widens,
And I pass around and under,
And the returning line
Ebbs home.

Beneath your feet I touch cold marble;
My hand returns
To sleep upon your breast
Dreaming it warm.

EMANUEL MORGAN
Opus 79

ONLY the wise can see me in the mist,
     For only lovers know that I am here
After his piping, shall the organist
     Be portly and appear?

Pew after pew,
     Wave after wave . . .
Shall the digger dig and then undo
     His own dear grave?

Hear me in the playing
     Of a big brass band . . .
See me, straying
     With children hand in hand . . .

Smell me, a dead fish . . .
     Taste me, a rotten tree. . . .
Someday touch me, all you wish,
     In the wide sea.