Celebrating a certain summer star festival.


When to the seventh night they flock,
Joy-birds across the silver stream
With wings like glockenspiels, that beat
And ford the waters, dock to dock,
Allowing us to meet—

Your sunset clouds signal to me
Anticipation, in the weave
Of blushing threaded through with heat
From under practised lethargy,
As ev’ning airs blow sweet—

And till the morning you’ll be real
No bright star, distant: human warmth
In hands, cheeks, eyelashes adorn’d,
Beauty to see, your pulse to feel.
I’ll hold you till the morn.

So when tonight the bridge is born
Allowing us at last to meet
I’ll come, as ev’ning airs blow sweet:
I’ll come to hold you till the morn.