Birds run in rivers outside themselves, and swing away.

If I were like any of that, whatever to say

Coming down to of course again, the unimaginary?

And music I find no words for, none for that hurry,

That private map-following going on under

Gales of everything I never knew.

I watched wander

A stem's length, newcomer, hummingbird at my windowsill.

He hung there.

My silence, clumsy as a mountain wall,

Could not have seemed even huge, if I was nothing

Complete there as I wished, front to that millioning

Green hunt for sweet in ordinary third-floor flowers.

Glass between my face and that unlikely window-box,

I was a moment or two, his speed a lifetime of hours.

Music to me is this too much. I listen and cannot listen,

I delight and resist, come and gone. Downstairs my wrist

Is August, lifting a newspaper that says January,

My gold vest-watch races back four three two unbury

My father who wore it.

No. For the long go, seagulls,

Sea-gray and sloping in airs of my slow mind. Their sails

Carry me up round and down, old windmill canvas on a cliff,

Their creaking wing to my wing my noise enough.