19 April 2019
Be nothing but thine own, and happy, but, by degree,
Therein lies deepest draws down dells and sleeps,
Seeps crown ánd smell – first and fearsome way, the sóunding sílenced, keeps
Safe in itself what in itself must keeps hope be;
And being, goes – góes down, rusts, but its own decree
Demands that time here is not here spent – nor wanted, nor wasted leaps
Far but lies bent and pent-úp; the earth, cold, and barren trust créeps
Ón, wearing, stággered-bearing the haggard toll of being free.
Yet, still, slow, as first fruits crúshed, gúshed,
And trampled – hushed, yet it goes: proclaims the same
In what goes forward its outer nature is: Lóve, near, and flushed
Flame sóng finds full its swing on long and wing – aim;
And sigh, spéak, and shoulder: find open arms of one from rúshed
Feet free and húrried pace bring soft now slow in the sound of its own name.
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