Poems (Cromwell)/The Breath

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THE BREATH
A trembling crestOf smoke, the winter skyCongeals to bloom,To please a poet's eye:
A slender reedArisen from some goldRecess or wombOf flame to spaces cold.
Between the twigs,That for a nest are spunOn flight's grey loom,A sapphire thread may run:
And so between the grey,The woven boughs of trees.A little plumeOf mist the poet sees;
It will suffice—Too scant a breath to name—For him to whomIt signifies a flame.
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