Poems (Cromwell)/The Breath
THE BREATH
A trembling crest Of smoke, the winter sky Congeals to bloom, To please a poet's eye:
A slender reed Arisen from some gold Recess or womb Of flame to spaces cold.
Between the twigs, That for a nest are spun On flight's grey loom, A sapphire thread may run:
And so between the grey, The woven boughs of trees. A little plume Of mist. the poet sees;
It will suffice—Too scant a breath to name—For him to whom It signifies a flame.