at the spires of the old cathedral—
The world is a wheel and the trees
form a ring of spokes; when it turns,
the edge of the sky catches fire
and the soul wants a hand to hold
in such a flurry of dizzying purple
and gold. Still shy as when first
it ventured abroad, there it stands
tongue-tied in a roomful of people,
easily overlooked in the streets
with their theatre of noise.