William Zorach (1887-1968) Spring in Central Park, 1914
You do not feel that I infringe on you,
with all your senses?
He put wings, my heart,
and now, white flies around your face.
Do not you see my soul before you,
adorned with silence?
And my prayer of May,
not ripe to your eyes, like a tree?
If you dream, I’m your dream,
but if you’re awake, I am your will;
master of all glory arch my silence starry