Olivia Taylor

To elaborate is no avail, learned and unlearned feel that it is so— And yet I must tell you how it is and what it is to know.

There comes a fiddle scraping golden through the wood Mournful as a dream, merry as a mile mound of flooded mead, a blue stain spreading into burning mouths with purple flame and all take hands to reel and whirl and frolic through the rain.

As sweet as salty sky-flung spouts to fishes in the air the light shoots round in a honey sound, and the embers stare towards velvet valleys behind the sun, while poppies in their dream-garb run,

blooming feathers homewards meet the stamping sound of giddy feet and all circle back and all exhale, take hands again, take heart again and spin until the wood is spinning too—

(To elaborate is no avail, learned and unlearned feel that it is so— And yet I must tell you how to dance and what it is to go.) 47 Poetry