Stars, Out of Reach
My soul may sing in the darkness,
Cleaving the black of the night;
Opening shadow with starkness,
Filling all with perfect light:
Binding the music of night wings,
Caught fondling the stars with love,
Raptured by music the wind sings,
And counterpoint from above.
But I love the stars too deeply,
To capture their bonfires bright,
In musical aspic, cheaply,
Or expensive words I write.
Poetry is to music as painting is to sculpture.