Up through ripples of light contorted,
Wide black marble looms arched over,
Through puddles empty, daft, but comported,
I parted from that place across fields of clover.
Dozing, frozen, a sweet river folded,
Show me I know you, you meek hazy croaker,
With prattling tongue and lips all remolded,
I floated in high grass of yellow and ochre.
Left! He called, Right! She retorted,
Keep course forward! The timid crow called for,
He’ll turn back now! The King soon reported,
I figured I’d stay awhile, just ‘till October.
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