Made of Crepe de Chine

A needle running in white crepe de chine Is not the frail servant of utility It was designed to be; It is an arrow of silver sunlight Plunging with a waterfall.

And hands moving in white crepe de chine Are not slaves of the precedent That governs them; They are the crouching women of a fountain, Who have sprung from marble into life To bathe ecstatically In the brimming basin.