Night of the golden tiger,A beautiful thing is born.
And the dry flame in the air,
Voices of the procession,
Faint now, from below us,
And the sea with tin flash in the sun-dazzle,
Like dark wine in the shadows.
"Wind between the sea and the mountains"
The tree-spheres half dark against sea,
half clear against sunset,
The sun's keel freighted with cloud,
And after that hour, dry darkness
Floating flame in the air, gonads in organdy,
Dry flamelet, a petal borne in the wind.
One of the first poems I ever wrote that got positive attention, when I was fifteen or so, was called "Night Canto." It won some high-school prize. I thought "Canto" was a magical word.