You do not hold me,
This much is sure.
I am a tidal of conviction
That takes the earth with mouth.

Sweet berry from the vine,
I can not be plucked;
Poison I am, and red
As the eye of a white-winged cough.

Shake I do the oaken boughs
With my call. Split the wood
I can with but my forefinger,
Should I not hollow it and make a flute.

The moon and I are of company,
And many a pool
Shimmer under me.
I have nothing that I wouldn’t give.

Would I lay before an altar,
I would lay like a precipice.
Bold and unwavering,
I’d have a god bend knee

Before I bent.

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