Reynolds & Midway 59

O let the briddes in tha greenie bours

pip & preen and lolligagging flutter

up & over happie one another

hoppynge beakèd thro' the dais longe hrs

& hrs of ioy; than wettend in them shours

that clap & bang i' th' welkin's darklynge wether

where Artymis, that hath the sea in tether,

silver-sickled ghostly bluely lours

whan even mingles light & dark and bringeth

nighte, who w her sable coverlette,

ouer the sleepynge villages she slingeth

gently, whan that Jewès harpe doth twang

and John of Birmingham dost croonynge sing

of cockerels crying whan the sunne is sette.

O let us run now many marathons

and race ahead to when the letters come

in proper order and the under drum—

its pitter patter in continuance—

remains, but in a subtle variance,

as Keats sd softly: Let it vary some,

her foot be sweetly sandald, nor by thrum

of rote be measured, yet shun violence

that want of fixd attention needs must bring,

the clash and clutter of the lack of Love,

the dearth of passion, and the paucity

of pulsing blood, and that still more dread thing

that kills her, which we shall not speak here of,

but bear in mind, for our posterity.

O let us open up our throats and sing

as Vachel did who thru America's towns

like Bertram, Cino, spoken of by Pound's

poems, troubadouring, minstreling,

cried poetry and did a wonder thing

w pockets full betimes, who made his rounds

as one be-loved by God & Christ Who crowns

w laurel all who sing in gude faith. King,

O Abba, Father, in Gethsemane

whan Jesus kneeld & prayd, and whan he sd

they set Him traps, then floodgates ope in me

and come the tears, here come the tears, this head,

O Lord, too full. Our overrunning cup

we raise to Thee. For aye O lift us up!

7.15-7.16 2015