To the Romantic Poets
Yes, she is the beautiful night
So lovely a night the stars get lost in her,
And yet from her wrists and lips unwind
The perilous dimes lost in subways--
A spiral of effluvia
We recognize as history--
The Israelites
Must battle the Arabs
Far from the moon's bright garden
In whose center blooms
The insomniac rose
And yet
She is the night of beauty
The angel whose name
Lifts the wet grass
And topples the insect gently