Parading

You, said Isaiah.

Oh, Cloud, sweet scarf of the Moon’s repose. Once more

“The origin of life / should be as unsurprising

As I came through the desert: Lo you, there,

To walk abroad is, not with eyes,

This ecstasy that plants beauty

Why with the time do I not glance aside

Rich doldrums / Full of gold

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,