I see, into a crystal-ordered whole
of liquid-golden colonnades packed tight,
– on purple heath shines August’s midday light –
an ochre honeycomb in a blue bowl.
And it’s as if small shadows half-striated
through humming, gleaming stillness leave a trace;
and it’s as if, before my mortal face,
summer stands wholly transsubstantiated.
Glacier of midday gleam, snow-clad with wax,
the silver twisting of the lamp-light glides
to fragrant vale of green-reflecting rummer
along the melting steepness of your sides.
Am I a priest? Profaner? – From sweet racks
I eat divinity of sun and summer.