poetry in motion

for these white arms about my neck
in your arms was still delight
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
at midnight
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
there is an hour of peaceful rest
soft as the bed in the earth
out of the sparkling sea
the darkness rolls upward
if i should die, think only this of me
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
i have had one fear in my life