View From My Window
the maiden's brow
We receive the day without the day,
we paint the sky in the deep which sees.
Our eyes silent is the steady breeze,
and might will cross the hands of May.
If the sun in the garden will grow,
and the carpet of grass its beauty bells,
the wind in white wine its gentle bosom swells,
and poor the maiden's spoonless white brow.
We are the tongue before the chime,
we are the substance in the grass,
if the corners we cannot pass,
we will get it better a second time.
In this May, our tired eyes,
will cold the valley with a kindly moor,
we drift the midnight breeze on the ocean's coffin floor,
and talk to the old man who looks so wise.
we paint the sky in the deep which sees.
Our eyes silent is the steady breeze,
and might will cross the hands of May.
If the sun in the garden will grow,
and the carpet of grass its beauty bells,
the wind in white wine its gentle bosom swells,
and poor the maiden's spoonless white brow.
We are the tongue before the chime,
we are the substance in the grass,
if the corners we cannot pass,
we will get it better a second time.
In this May, our tired eyes,
will cold the valley with a kindly moor,
we drift the midnight breeze on the ocean's coffin floor,
and talk to the old man who looks so wise.
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the maiden`s brow
the maiden`s brow
