Epithalamion

Singing, today I married my white girl
beautiful in a barley field,
wise are her eyes so touch holy wood
—
give my love to the loveless world
and all that is ours and gently good
to all the living but not the dead.
Now no more than vulnerable human
we, more than one, less than two,
are nearly ourselves in a barley field
—
and only love is the rent that's due
though the bailiffs of time return anew
to all the living but not the dead.
Shipwrecked, the sun sinks down harbours
of a sky, unloads its liquid cargoes
of marigolds, and I and my white girl
lie still in the barley—who else wishes
to speak, what more can be said
by all the living against all the dead?
Come then all you wedding guests
:
green ghost of trees, gold of barley,
you blackbird priests in the field,
you wind that shakes the pansy head
fluttering on a stalk like a butterfly;
come the living and come the dead.
Listen flowers, birds, winds, worlds,
tell all today that I married
more than a white girl in the barley
—
for today I took to my human bed
flower and bird and wind and world
and all the living and all the dead.