The End of All Things gazed in pieces and said,
The beautiful hour I tell you was for myself.
His home awaited an angry prophecy.
We fumbled with the bedclothes of death,
keeping time with the husky fever. Often
in the last moments of childhood, the appeals
of the brave swept onward, down the awful echo
of these imaginations. In mistaking health
for perception let the light enter, eternity take place
by the flame of an approaching story, anxiety
spread out visions of green fields, some sweet delight.
Energetically the pain in nearly every instance
is a famous friend. I wish I had the pleasant thing:
to be myself again, divine as we came into it.