In
the orange-gold dye of ten thousand lilies
The
tiler lays his tiny tiles ---
The
path he makes
He
forms of their powered gold
Clear
as glass the little pollen pieces of their heart
Molten
first, then shaped, his tiles ---
Till
he be given ---
The
sheer substance of the way he paves:
Of
them, and for them the path --- his precious
Crushed
lilies . . .
*
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