The Golden String I

Once you have tasted and know that the bright golden string runs through all things
How then can death have any sting?
How, now, can I fear that love will not lift me?

I will leave the way of things and pass through the trees
Because the bright green spring is playing at the edges of all our vision, like sunlight
And such vision is prophecy
As is the smell of autumn smoke in my nose 

And the memory of Tangiers—which I visited during a long draught of sorrow, and whose beauty, then, was to me only a mockery—is now a hall of mirrors, 
Of shape and delight unending
A golden tangerine whose juice seems to swell all the earth with seeing 
Only because 
The string runs through it and now, I know
Through you and me