Wading the sea-lines, moist and ever-mingling, 
 Mounting the earth-lines, long and lax, lethargic. 
 These lines are swift and fall without diverging. 
  
 The melon-flower nor dew nor web of either 
 Is like to these. But in yourself is like: 
 A sheaf of brilliant arrows flying straight, 
 Flying and falling straightway for their pleasure, 
  
 Their pleasure that is all bright-edged and cold; 
 Or, if not arrows, then the nimblest motions, 
 Making recoveries of young nakedness 
 And the lost vehemence the midnights hold.