My blue muse, trust me again
with your heart, salted and cured
but no less lovely than when it
was dewey and fresh in the bud
on the vine of my delight.
For inside the crusts of salt
lie not the crumbs of experience
left behind by the flight of days
but the radiant luster of moments
lived and dreamed and yet to be.
Audacious hearts contain
neither miniature terrariums, nor
fears by brimstone perfumed.
Inside, O see! four sea-blown
pines; cherry blossoms on the wind;
and all the opalescent stars of love.