What Happens In The Heart

The Brassy Wood-pigeons Bubble Their Colourful Voices, And The Sun Rises Upon A World Well-tried And Old.

It Took The Whole Of Creation To Produce My Foot, My Each Feather: Now I Hold Creation In My Foot.

So The Self Under The Eye Lies, Attendant And Withdrawn.

The Sea Cries With Its Meaningless Voice, Treating Alike Its Dead And Its Living

In The Pit Of Red You Hid From The Bone-clinic Whiteness But The Jewel You Lost Was Blue.