The Fugitive

round whose bodiless rush stagnant sp

Lover calling you across h

your tangled tresses break into stormy riot and pearls

eeping aside all waste; the storm centred with your dancing limbs

a heap, an encumbrance, barring its own progress, and even the least speck of

rhythm of unseen feet round whic

art, and through my blood surge

rld to world and form to form, scattering my being i

blows, the boat dances like

and sail over the unfathomed