ISSUE: Autumn 1962
They themselves, in their
Flaming robes, winged headdresses
Holding the rail at the edge
Of the great world of air
Almost ascend
On the rushing wind
They stand against
With ecstatic faces
Pale-cheeked, partaking
Of the Creation—
Black-robed these Muses
At their earthly station—
Which destroys and makes,
Burning, propelled by
Its fuels and luminous saints,
These ships of the fleet.
