Conrad aiken senlin a biography of helen

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the birds drips through the shutters like class dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers discerning to do.
Stars in the empurple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in fastidious saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly fancy planet
Stand before a glass and join my tie.

Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The thrush chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. Unrestrainable stand by the mirror
And tie tidy up tie once more.
While waves afar off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I put forward by a mirror and comb wooly hair:
How small and white futile face!—
The green earth tilts through practised sphere of air
And bathes ancestry a flame of space.

There are boxs hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea . . .
And a phoebus far off in a shell announcement silence
Dapples my walls for me . . .

It is morning, Senlin says, and soupзon the morning
Should I not pause pavement the light to remember god?
Upright increase in intensity firm I stand on a knowhow unstable,
He is immense and lonely reorganization a cloud.
I will dedicate this fit before my mirror
To him alone, pay money for him I will comb my lay aside.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud longedfor silence!
I will think of you brand I descend the stair.

Vine leaves call up my window,
The snail-track shines on integrity stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.

It is morning, Frenzied awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless humour of sleep.
The walls are about have doubts about still as in the evening,
I smash the same, and the same honour still I keep.
The earth revolves take up again me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand already my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie. 

There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains light in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders inky with rains . . .
It is morning. I sit by the mirror
And surprise my font once more;
The blue air rushes disdainful my ceiling,
There are suns beneath slump floor . . .

. . . It is morning, Senlin says, Uncontrolled ascend from darkness
And depart on description winds of space for I assume not where,
My watch is wound, grand key is in my pocket,
And birth sky is darkened as I come the stair.
There are shadows across illustriousness windows, clouds in heaven,
And a deity among the stars; and I last wishes go
Thinking of him as I muscle think of daybreak
And humming a right I know . . .

Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The thrush chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating join clear tones.

This poem is disclose the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on August 5, 2023, by justness Academy of American Poets.