Blind bow spirit,

                           my mother,

                                               Beatrice

 

The lapse of all streams is a form of weeping,
And the heaving swell of the sea.

Every dwelling is a desolate hill.
Every hill is a desolate dwelling.

To the lightning bolt, burdened
Interpreter of the quick, bright
Scratch.

And we were no more scattered
Like swallows, or flowing from the broken
Hill like shards, but the swallows as they were

How all things shatter, fall away, and break.
In this time of my great happiness I pass
And repass the gates of the Holy Ghost

The light is a grinder of knives jangling his bells
For seven in the morning. He is all the steeples
In the town calling for whatever this day must be new made.

I will not sleep.
Men sleep and the beasts sleep, and no one watches.
The paid watchmen going their rounds