Foster the light nor veil the manshaped moon，

Nor weather winds that blow not down the bone，

But strip the twelve-winded marrow from his circle；

Master the night nor serve the snowman's brain

That shapes each bushy item of the air

Into a polestar pointed on an icicle.

Murmur of spring nor crush the cockerel's eggs，

Nor hammer back a season in the figs，

But graft these four-fruited ridings on your country；

Farmer in time of frost the burning leagues，

By red-eyed orchards sow the seeds of snow，

In your young years the vegetable century.

And father all nor fail the fly-lord's acre，

Nor sprout on owl-seed like a goblin-sucker，

But rail with your wizard's ribs the heart-shaped planet；

Of mortal voices to the ninnies' choir，

High lord esquire， speak up the singing cloud，

And pluck a mandrake music from the marrowroot.

Roll unmanly over this turning tuft，

O ring of seas， nor sorrow as I shift

From all my mortal lovers with a starboard smile；

Nor when my love lies in the cross-boned drift

Naked among the bow-and-arrow birds

Shall you turn cockwise on a tufted axle.

Who gave these seas their colour in a shape，

Shaped my clayfellow， and the heaven's ark

In time at flood filled with his coloured doubles；

O who is glory in the shapeless maps，

Now make the world of me as I have made

A merry manshape of your walking circle.