Any word of every phrase is utter blandest hesitance
To this piping horn or violin that tickles through mine heart.
Yet still I try a ballot day to find this ocean’s blood’s extent:
Pencil point erases not, nor pens beginning word or joy;
Alack, I try, and still it stops surcease of the beating heart
- Shrouded, wisest, foolish beating, drilling beat, drumming beat;
Desultory thing, misplaced, calmed by the sound of thee alone –
But still a word is never more than aftermath of the dreamt star;
Star of sky, cease my tongue – alack! the lone escape is one to plant,
Soil being words: inescapable words! But still violin bow:
Time is little up and meaningless beside your own, wise phrase:
Hear not the sue of words, but rather what the words ensue to thee:
For voiceless is this panting chant above the stars and without death:
Love, my dear, will breathe alone unchosen so, and without
rest.