SOON as divine September, flushing from sea to sea,
Peers from the whole wide upland into eternity,
Soft as an exhalation, ghosts of the thistle start:
Never a poet saw them but ached in his baffled heart.
O what a nameless urging through avenues laid in air;
Hints of escape, unbodied, intricate, everywhere;
Sense of a feared denial, or access yet to be won;
Gleams of a dubious gesture for guesses to feed upon!
Flame is flying in heaven, the down on the cool hillside:
Earth is a bride-veil glory that cannot conceal the Bride.