and to your(in my arms flowering so new)

　　self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

　　and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to

　　a disappearing poet of always,snow

　　and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend

　　twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and

　　let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid

　　down with ought with because with every brain

　　which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up

　　with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)

　　here's to one undiscoverable guess

　　of whose mad skill each world of blood is made

　　(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon