Only the hands are living; to the wheel attracted,
Are moved as deer trek desperately towards a creek
Through the dust and scrub of the desert, or gently
As sunflowers turn to the light.
And, as the night takes up the cries of feverish children,
The cravings of lions in dens, the loves of dons,
Gathers them all and remains the night, the
Great room is full of their prayers
To the last feast of isolation self-invited
They flock, and in the rite of disbelief are joined;
From numbers all their stars are recreated,
The enchanted, the world, the sad.
Without, the rivers flow among the wholly living,
Quite near their trysts; and the mountains part them; and the bird
Deep in the greens and moistures of summer
Sings towards their work.
But here no nymph comes naked to the youngest shepherd;
The fountain is deserted; the laurel will not grow;
The labyrinth is safe but endless, and broken
Is Ariadne’s thread.
As deeper in these hands is grooved their fortune: “Lucky
Were few, and it is possible that none was loved;
And what was godlike in this generation
Was never to be born.”
