Mud Master

The muddy rivers of spring
Are snarling
Under muddy skies.
The mind is muddy.

As yet, for the mind, new banks
Of bulging green
Are not;

Sky-sides of gold
Are not.
The mind snarls.

Blackest of pickanines,
There is a master of mud.
The shaft of light
Falling, far off, from sky to land,
That is he--

The peach-bud maker,
The mud master,
The master of the mind.