As beautiful as the hands
Of a winter tree
And as holy
Base are they beside thee

As dross beside thee

O green birds
That sing the earth to wakefulness
As tides the sea
Drab are they beside thee

As tinsel beside thee

O pure
And fair as the clouds
Over a summer field
They are crass beside thee
The hands
Move through the starhair

As tawdry beside thee

The Love Poems of Kenneth Patchen