Let me pour drops of myself out to you --
But so: the trembling-insubstantial dew
Leaves ghosts upon the grass. We two will grow
Together like the jagged teeth of caves
In concentrated, ore-dense beads and slow
Relentless rhythms. Once, the dead gods gave
Their blessing to the linden and the oak
Who stand with winter-budding limbs entwined --
And so we will be ancient, by and by.
We will be monuments. We will evoke
A rippling stillness in the mortal things
Who will, beside our reaching arms, stand small,
And we will flood the air with echoing
Of salt-rich heavy droplets as they fall.