The salve of newly growing things and moon raised,
when blown ships of clouds have borne away the rain,
quells like mercy the maddened senses
with undreamed filling, quiet powers, pure
perfume: the lilac bushes' green shingled roofs
decked with purple spires all atilt - nose pushed
into wet leaves, or passing, puts question - for what
do they exist? They answer: naught but perfume.
Night of spring comes incensed; the loosened smells
from an opened window in a home beyond the world,
put into passerby blooms, moments of petals,
when stranded clouds, winnowed white; tatters left
from the moved on ships, make a monstrance of the moon.