The
life-seed, swells, the heart becomes a globe
And
the split, the crevice in my sphere
Runs
right through, from centre, to the edge . . .
Both
ways . . . a polar axis . . . a pivoting life-line
Once
warped, now strait as a die
But in each part the semblance of one bend
Which took offence as though it were a prize
And
so straitened it
And
the light, perfect, which now shone inside it
Was
as a road, broken through to my surface world
Nor
more to wind round things I’d rather not face
But
through the very middle of them
Mining
their treasures . . .
Taking
pain by making of it comfort
Annulling
thorns by finding only gifts
And
now real life for only a former glimmer of it.
*
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