‘He who does not imagine in stronger and better lineaments, and in stronger and better light than his perishing mortal eye can see, does not imagine at all.’ —Blake

In black and green and white one candle burns
Upon some pages, under a lute that leans
Against a wall. Outside the window pine
Branches hang descending where dark turns
In unstarred blackness, though nearby, we know,
Ripe figs demand tongue, the ready wine
Floats in a bottle, and the salad greens
Slowly towards perfection as the night,
Outside and near, ascends the shores of light,
Faraway, that bear all greens that grow.