Rhyme
in your clear chime
  we hear
ringing, far-off and clear,
in beauty's fairy granges
at evensong the changes
  and swells
and of her lost elfin-bells.

  You
glimmering through,
  astir,
wander a lamplighter,
kindling that lamp and this
of long-quenched memories
  with blaze
of their auto-da-fés.

  Numbers
the soul remembers,
  (and moved among them when
the Sons of Morning sung them)
you echo, while the dim
shadow of Seraphim
  half floats
among your muted notes.

  Tamer
of love's sweet grammar
  you parse,
and change, his nouns to stars,
his verbs you conjugate,
so that they vanish straight
  from time,
and lift - a moonlit paradeigm.

  Rhyme
by your clear chime
  we climb,
clean out of space and time,
and the small earth behind us
can neither lose nor find us,
  set free in your eternity.