Spestas

A girl sits on a balcony; above her head, Which, tilted, loosens a flood of hair, Which she, conscious, has spilled unconsciously From out of her mother’s grave, a small bird sits, And closing its eyes from heat or ecstasy, Literally climbs to heaven on her own voice.

Down below, flowerpots line the balcony And wait to be wet so they can be dry again; Lower down, gods walk in the streets, Appear, are lost, and attract the attention Of the girl, who is quite unconscious of the bird, Having fed it, and besides, is Greek, and young, and fond of men.

This is how I remember it—with the sun not dancing, Not playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, but pouring Its light out down into the souls of men, Which rose, and looked at one another, and said “This is good; let there be light.” Which brings us round To theology again, with the bird singing its eyes out Over the girl sitting on the balcony above The cool interior courtyard, and below, the men.