| At the birth of the day | |
| As a babe of the spray | |
| Like a white star, tangled and far, | |
| Tulip that's what you are. | |
| Warm and wise as a mute | |
| In the thunderbolt suit | |
| Princely and torn, grasping the horn | |
| Of the maenads of May. | |
| Sleepy dreaming of dark | |
| Silver Satyrs in parks | |
| Statues that say, worship the day | |
| For only humans you are. | |
| Channels churning the grime | |
| Inky dreams of our time | |
| Into the Sun, where the white one | |
| Poems them into a rhyme. | |
| On a hill the clear shrill | |
| Made the Titans most ill | |
| Angels abound, and | |
| I'm kissing the ground | |
| Thrilled to be around | |
| Vineyards spangled with love | |
| For the white dove above | |
| Green and lean from the waste | |
| Of the pastures of chaste | |
| Preciously he is whole. | |
| Twinkled eyes like a king | |
| Charted seas on your skin | |
| Like a White Star, tangled and far, | |
| Tulip that's what you are. |
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