Our Own Senses

I love the way we sense that poetry
Feeds our own senses. Kiss, (that’s when the hum
Begins). We put to sea (with a bottle of rum
And seventy-five men). On the (wine-dark) sea
We took our chance, and from the tall mast tree
Sweet pine scent; sailing to Byzantium
The ship foundered, just like at Actium
(Age cannot wither her). What do you see?

A sailor (catching tigers in red weather)
Remarks on having sensed the lavender,
Attar of roses, frankincense and myrrh.
(Hope is the thing with feathers), a bright feather
Floats suddenly towards you, hell-for-leather:
Sight, and sound, touch, and taste (they taste good to her).