featureless idling strews the wintry strands

Each waking I conclude erotic dreams
private mass entertainment. There’s
no joy in this, nor do I spend desire
that things should be so. Otherwise I read
of matrimony on your foreign planet
but cannot find the language. Otherwise
featureless idling strews the wintry strands;
woods bare their clutter; sea birds appear
to boister the waves, to wrench themselves
windborne. The soughing moon-tide’s hulkingness,
massive passivity, works in gnarls of light.
Further I cannot judge
whether to go, or stay; or tell how one
might stay, another go, far flung, bereft.

Geoffrey Hill, "Chromatic Tunes"