To Henri Teixeira De Mattos

Mishka is poet among the beasts. When roots are rotten, and rivers weep. The bear is at play in the land of sleep. Though his head be heavy between his fists. The bear is poet among the beasts.

THE DREAM:

Wide and large are the monster's eyes, Nought saying, save one word alone: Mishka! Mishka, as turned to stone, Hears no word else, nor in anywise Can see aught save the monster's eyes.

Honey is under the monster's lips; And Mishka follows into her lair, dragged in the net of her yellow hair, Knowing all things when honey drips On his tongue like rain, the song of the hips

Of the honey-child, and of each twin mound. Mishka! there screamed a far bird-note, Deep in the sky, when round his throat The triple coil of her hair she wound. And stroked his limbs with a humming sound.

Mishka is white like a hunter's son Tor he knows no more of the ancient south When the honey-child's lips are on his mouth, When all her kisses are joined in one, And his body is bathed in grass and sun.

The shadows lie mauven beneath the trees, And purple stains, where the finches pass, Leap in the stalks of the deep, rank grass. Flutter of-wing, and the buzz of bees, Deepen the silence, and sweeten ease.

The honey-child is an olive tree, The voice of birds and the voice of flowers, Each of them all and all the hours, The honey-child is a winged bee, Her touch is a perfume, a melody.