baby poem

i cannot always feel his greatness
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
it was the autumn of the year
a pen of steel
mysterious night
as a naked man i go
uplifting, as the wind blew
i think it just splendid
dark-eyed
in mournful numbers
were it not for that singular smell
up to her chamber window
let us pity those who are better off than we are
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue