“The hour like a child runs down the angle of star and rests at the bottom”

The hour like a child runs down the angle of star and rests at the bottom
It is a strange woman that may hold that child in its arms
But women prefer to see the hours slip from their fingers
For they are dancing an old earth constituency

I am a little beyond the river and stare from my particular casement
I am slender as the stalk and have my own flowering
I don’t draw from women but I prefer the truth and not the trick of living

Therefore I walk by women as the sea ponders by the shore
I tremble and splash my spray by the cavern
Hear my own strange breath and laughter
But is my echoing and I am unalterably the sea.