I
bespoke the
bolt with which
The rays and rain shall wrap my breast,
Pinch my waist and thighs and wrists,
Of an airy wool.
It, that bolt, has no demand
In space, for it was spun beyond
Wheels of guide by woman’s hand,
By the weather full.
I will never dance a hall
Or walk the streets in my fine suit,
But, it should within my
pall
Shroud my softened form.
It shall take me to the fields
Of dreamiest
Elysium
Where the breeze should dully yield
To the fabric worn.