Saddling up on a horse's back,
I sea a sea filled with thoughts at its shore;
I stare into a space but no place to drop my wishes;
Consumed by the flake of bullets;
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.