No One Knows The Colour Of A

For You Are Abstract, Making No Mistake, Slurring No Word In The Rhythm You Make, The Poem, Writ In The Air.

Love Is A Garment Riven In The Light That Rises From Parnassus, Showing The Night Is Over.

Fall The Deep Curtains, Delicate The Weave, Fair The Thread.

We Are These People, Wistful, Ironical, Wilful, Who Have No Part In New-world Reconstruction, In The Confederacy Of Labour.

You Will Not See That Desire Begets Love, Until It All Flames Into One Concise And Metallic Blaze.