Antiquity

It is a day of full Antiquity. The land to a greener surface rearranges Its rows of vines, the plain white temple changes Its Doric force to amiability.

Nothing disturbs the lip or the pursed loin. Speech is a honeyed bubble; it rests light On the flashing tongue, and any moment might Translate the imprisoned goddess from the stone.

To move either hand into this sacred air Is to meet an answering motion of the wind Beyond which, nothing moves. The sea is kind, And gathers quiet on the empty shore.

The light's complete. The lovers, side by side, Ease to the holy center of the kiss. The temple finds its sacrifice in this. The olives leaf. The vines are multiplied.