Opaque except to mystery
Spring wherein there was no sound
Or movement, smooth as mercury,
God looked at the silent pond
Nor was there underneath a toss
Of scintillation or of mass
Until He drew his hand across
The face and then a flutter passed
I heard the sound of whistled notes
Ecstatic and amphibian,
An alternation of the flutes
That counterpointing soar and blend
Through the broken surface rise
Globes that drip the new-born sun,
The wings and keels of dragonflies—
And then creation has begun