and silent earth, your limbs alight the wandered arc
and to your dappled rims return: what supple night
eloped with, past the gleaming wreath. What tumbled,
up the coiling pale, and passed for light, when late
we braided Diane’s hair, like drunken knives stuck into
the unseelie green, was like the bird, that coward thrush
who hung unseen from Aquila; stole heaven’s height,
and left us to bob languidly, amid our dim unstoppered
gyres, in keeps of ash, and bottled fire.