Gliding along the black furrows,
Slipping from shade to shade
Beneath the rough astonishing cliffs,
Grasping curled and knotted roots
For hoist
It was ages, seconds, centuries,
The spinning sky, the heights,
The rolling camouflage like flame
In hiding, now a wave and now
No more the patchwork comfort:
All the only naked teeming earth
When the singing began –
High or low or from within
It ceased to matter –
My precious foliage,
The streams always moving,
Footsteps always fresh –
Singing it was was all I knew,
My voice at last among the many
Bent to the sublime
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