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"Overwhelming, the stop-motion of a world; is all the world so quiet to me.

She was sleeping. So peaceful when we are still--and they, are still.

How I miss the pond that never rippled. Outside home, the white swans,

Where did they all go? Travelled to oceans that move so fully, and slowly

--a paradise of girth. And we all get older, find others, in shapes of

Whatever, find affections, whatever it is to us--at evening meals, speaking

to us

In the not moving creases of rooms, corners of homes, humanness. It is

A weeping--a weeping murmur, in a corner sat, in mornings it slips

Back part on part to us, and so we can then weep in the day. The way

sunrise

Lights them--and sets upon bodies and brooks, painted onto the being,

Unseeable the arms, and legs, and breasts, until painted awake; I was once

Made of hearts and more revered the heart--longed the dense clinching

Flesh, and then, longed only a time, a still day, without its constrictions."