lyric poetry

when the veil from the eyes is lifted
one by one, like leaves from a tree
is there anybody there
who will be naming the wind
it was a tall young oysterman
who is the runner in the skies
i have heard them in the night
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
in the sphere
the pale day drowses on the western steep
why do you always stand there shivering
beautiful, tragical faces
perhaps it is no matter that you died