Pillowed on a lotus flower, Gathered in a summer hour, Rides he o'er the mountain wave Which would be a tall ship's grave! At his back his bow is slung, Sugar-cane, with wild bees strung,—
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
