On that night, after day so bright, I finally saw the sky
After a winter air, full and cold, but bare, with the clouds still grasping the stars
And I hummed, "Foul, I to the fountain fly. . ."
And I arrived like new in a strangle, old hue
But after all, after never seeing fall, (for I was hid and bound by that frame)
I designed a tomb; a gray, hidden room for all my useless knowledge
It read, "I hold these two: My fault in you
And your coming days full of a guilty haze,"
Now the firmament, the most-blessed event, seems a curse; a thorn in my head
And all my picket-signs come to redefine; they send for another to be my help
So I say, "All my years could never pay back these fears,"
And, "Let there be light,"
The concrete blocks full of starts and stops draw a glare, a reason to kill
And the brilliance great from the oblique weight now I hate, now I look for an end
It speaks, "Damned be the son who neither waits nor runs
But stirs and errs and never looks to confer,"
To your florid grave, the place I'd dare behave, I write a poem with the roughest of hands
And here I find the time for a pathetic rhyme while I draw this fleeting breath
With a glittering eye she draws me by
And now I paraphrase and lose track of the days
But after I had made them leave whereby and closed the door hard behind
I shut out the light, but it just wasn't right. It was like saying good-bye to a statue
So I say, "Farewell to the lot of you
And let me hide myself in Thee,"