Childhood made a Poet's Lyre Hands embroidered in limbs of dark briar Bent to the wind's plaintive whistling words Scattering whispers in your nettled hood Would they fall to a weathered home With branches of arms for a laden pillow And years wrought of withering laurels Blossoms now on the apple boughs Stars are near to the shaded arbor Once a hand could touch Wherefore the other will search Childhood made a Poet's Lyre Heart enfolded in wings of black bird Could they fly on feathers borne When lips salute the Hazel's Horn Or would they crawl through a weathered home Should lips encumber a mordant moan Bent to the wind's whistling word What cloudy guest at this darkened hearth What cloistered heart to hold the black earth Once a hand could touch Wherefore the other will search