[I never wish to sing again as I used to . . .]

     I never wish to sing again as I used to, when two new eyes could
always stain the sea, of tangent worlds, indolent as callows, and the clock
went backward for a skip, to rise, to set.
      Some will twine grass to fit in a thimble, some will carve bread to
mend a craggy wall, some in the slantest midnight cry for sleep. When
the pitch-owl swallows the moon, what welt will show it? Sighing helps
nothing, raspberries raw and green, in the form of a heart
      imperfectly divided. A wave grows sharper close to the shore. Some
own words like strips of scape and summon. It is possible to suffer even
in the sun. And race the steep noon to its highest, hoary gate. Stares
drop under the sky; silence of a windslap; and a scar drifts out of air to
stand whistling:
      She who listens poorly will always be calling. She who sounds silence
drowns with the dumb.
      She who cuts her hands off must drink with her tongue.