The ice-cold of this jasper pool
Under the moon is warm as wool
To one who rests a narrow chin
On folded arms. Nine fathoms in,
The gold leaf of the moon is thin.
Frail fountains of intrepid gnats,
Minute and perfect acrobats,
Bubble and fade. A blue light grows
Into the petals of a rose.
Shrieks—till the air is cicatrose.