Now float me down from that high town, my love;
For we are born to sorrow, men have said,
And cannot travel where the angels rove;
Now float me down to ground where men have bled.
There, heartache cannot thunder through our skin;
We’re drenched to magic, drunken out of time;
The hours dance like refugees between
Our arms; the cool moon’s hanging like a dime.
Here, where we’re waked by sudden storms of bombs,
The infant’s world is strangled with a groan;
Death, perched on crutches, pesters us for alms.
O, do not rush me here, now float me down….
The ghosts of many gunners chafe the ground
Where we dance heart to heart without a sound
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