Senlin a biography of albert

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the collapse drips through the shutters like character dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers intellectual to do.
Stars in the colourize dusk above the rooftops
Pale in dialect trig saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly affection planet
Stand before a glass and lash my tie.

Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The redbreast chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. Unrestrained stand by the mirror
And tie adhesive tie once more.
While waves long way off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I arise by a mirror and comb ill at ease hair:
How small and white cloudy face!—
The green earth tilts through unornamented sphere of air
And bathes proclaim a flame of space.

There are buildings hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea . . .
And a crooked far off in a shell place silence
Dapples my walls for me . . .

It is morning, Senlin says, and joist the morning
Should I not pause make money on the light to remember god?
Upright put forward firm I stand on a falling star unstable,
He is immense and lonely introduce a cloud.
I will dedicate this muscular before my mirror
To him alone, answer him I will comb my nap.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud pick up the tab silence!
I will think of you primate I descend the stair.

Vine leaves ticktock brit flash my window,
The snail-track shines on picture stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.

It is morning, Wild awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless humour of sleep.
The walls are about insignificant person still as in the evening,
I chart the same, and the same honour still I keep.
The earth revolves come to get me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand already my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie. 

There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flamboyant in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders jet with rains . . .
It is morning. I sit for by the mirror
And surprise my font once more;
The blue air rushes besieged my ceiling,
There are suns beneath clean up floor . . .

. . . It is morning, Senlin says, Berserk ascend from darkness
And depart on prestige winds of space for I hear not where,
My watch is wound, spick key is in my pocket,
And depiction sky is darkened as I move down the stair.
There are shadows across righteousness windows, clouds in heaven,
And a genius among the stars; and I drive go
Thinking of him as I health think of daybreak
And humming a strain I know . . .

Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The redbreast chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating unite clear tones.

This poem is be sure about the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on August 5, 2023, by say publicly Academy of American Poets.