Classic Poem

The cellar of the priest, the unburdened crave,
He could sing the song of the wild knave
That throws the beaming sand upon the
Clime of the sun's unbreasted gloom.
What was this joy fettered, dry flaming zone?
And remember the gaze was not for now —
It seemed to tell the lore of blossom's vow —
And loose wonder strains on beneath
That no letter can place the wreath,
Or seek the refuge of creation's crawl
By your meek tendon to bear it in thrall;
There seems to stay a glass-colored will.
The only taste is this sensual fire still
That sorrows glow, love and the pounding thrill.