The Sacred Wood

Perhaps that I could find you in a Sacred Wood,
Once there, a flag to plant, and dub Nowhere,
Elsewise by caterpillar crowds no doubt it would
Be sooner overrun than could I glimpse you there
Washing in purple water your grey dappled hair,
Until the bath wherein I found you should
Become the firmament of worlds unmade,
Or splash you me, and me become a deer
Through undergrowth of rootless stars pursued
By hounds more black than soot upon a forge.
Turn the white book to the subsequent page,
And happy lovers I and you, the Sacred Wood
More faerie-bower than the inward air,
And scent ubiquitous of yellow blood,
For huntress, you are sharp of wit and fair
As the black flowers of the Sacred Wood
Whose dew clings to the thornless stems of stars,
Like mountain cherries in the high courtyard
Of a reclusive antlered god.