He loosed the window-latch
_
And then he loosened me,
_
My grim cavort
_
The first report,
_
Now made belatedly.

From gopher-wood and thatch
_
I plied by eye and wing,
_
The ruffled weather,
_
Wave and feather,
_
Black from the sea-winds fling.

Yet there was nothing there
_
But fountains of the deep
_
And heaven's wells
_
Washing great swells
_
Of salt the drowning weep.

Then hunting everywhere
_
Below a rounding moon
_
I felt my screech
_
Grow Eden-speech
_
We shared in that long noon

Whose fallen silent leaves
_
With Adam's clacking bones
_
Are swept through seas
_
My singing frees
_
From brine's dumb undertones.

And though a dove retrieves
_
From olives on the heights
_
Her leaf and lands
_
In Noah's hands
_
To coo away wild frights

And though she be the high
_
Meek queen of that new realm
_
Of peace and love,
_
The Holy Dove
_
No flood will overwhelm,

By foaming star tides I
_
Still fly unsounded ground
_
That Noah's sweat
_
Makes fertile yet,
_
This raven-dark profound.

_ [/
—David Middleton
/]