So do the mottled formulas of Sense
Glide snakewise through our dreams of Aftertime;
So errors breed in reeds and gra**es dense
That bank our singing rivulets of rhyme.
By Sense rule Space and Time, but in God's land
Their intervals are not, save such as lie
Betwixt successive tones in concords bland
Whose loving distance makes the harmony.
Ah, there shall never come ‘twixt me and thee
Gross dissonances of the mile, the year;
But in the multichords of ecstasy
Our souls shall mingle, yet be featured clear,
And absence wrought to intervals divine,
Shall part, yet link, thy nature's tone in mine.