MIDNIGHT
CANTO
Young,
you weep the falling moon,
Luminous
willow, beside the black river
Where
I drown in your pale ghost,
Each
small wave, the eyelid
Of
a scattered rose, silvered by the light.
You
are everything that time could steal
From
me, brought back, an afterlife
I
had not thought possible, a birth
Beyond
the debt I owe to anyone,
These
hauntings, these crucial exorcisms.
In
me, wheat, honey, white gold,
Your
sad summer made mystery
By
night, in me, when perfect solitude
Paints
your face upon its raven waters
And
the watching stars discuss conspiracies
Of
love that terrify the sleepless hour.
Servant
of the dream that spins the world
Through
the languishing ages into yesterday,
I
am resurrected like the wind to comb
Your
hair, and play upon your cheek,
A
memory of fire, to let you know,
Though
alone, I am near and now,
The
music of your shining leaves,
Companion,
sage, fool, or poet,
The
soft, mad music of your shining leaves.
PATRICK
WHITE
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