from “The Wind”

There is moon colored corn
 And the wind smells of hay;
Time melts from branches 
In the strawberry clay.
Mozart is weaving rich music,
Like lace,
That droops from the heavens
And shadows my face.
I swim through a sea 
of smouldering rust,
Chasing the young nymphs
Who sprinkle moon dust
On the earth's burning flesh.