poetry anthology

if i were very sure
sun and wind and beat of sea
he came and took me by the hand
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
a little peach in the orchard grew
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
the body may confine
above them all, looking down
grieve not for the invisible
it was the autumn of the year
there by the window in the old house
one sweetly solemn thought
perhaps