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To Johannes Brahms

I, who am an intruder in the gardens
You have lavished on the future's plural
Memory, wished to sing the glory
That unto azure raise your strings.
I've desisted. To honor you
Enough is not this misery of people
Wont to nickname vacuity art.
Who honors you is bright and valiant.
I am a coward. And a wretch. Nothing
Could justify that audacity
Of singing the magnificent joy
—Crystal and fire—of your enamored soul.
My servitude is the impure word,
Offshoot of a concept and a sound;
Nor symbol, nor mirror, nor groan,
Yours is the flying river that perdures.