The
holding thing that runs, the broken find
What
they looked for, and never found, I had
The
thing the world desired, I’d been given
Not,
an added thing, but loss itself, my taken thing.
Not
as I will, but as you willed – the turner
The
turning thing – the spinning pivot –
Upon
which all hanged and was made free
There
the door cracked, and light seeped in and in.
Upon
the inner sphere the silver shining face
And
the door in the tree, returned – opened –
Each
time, from fullness, reflecting a new picture!
Here
a host of new screened writings, books in skins.
Light’s
Library, itself, was hid inside – no dream
Row
upon row, lining the inner walls – all there
Every
history, of every fall, all recorded – complete
My
hopes, and dew, my every dream – written there!
As
each lively hair, was counted – so my every thought
As
each grain of sand, numbered – so all my dreams
Each
slightest hope, each heartbeat – emblazoned there
As
for knowledge of me, it did not lack nor miss a thing!
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