In the dawn my scrabbling fingers
Seek the lost poem-seed. Along
The soft cusp of sleep and waking,
     I wrote it all down:
Each night-whispered line a pure, bounding song;
     Each word a smouldering coal.

Of the glory moonlit singers
From dreams into memory knit,
Scratches on an ill-folded thing
     Are all I have; but:
Now that I know what it means to give it
All broken things have my love