I That the clouds should stop coming Deeper; the hours, the distance That the trees should stop flagging Forward; to evening, to Europe That the wind should not usher Through; the axis, the seasons But breathe only, on broken bottles Gently, and sing II Perfect, in their poise As the pipes of a church organ Cut in the lapsed wings Of an albatross stalking Brimming with storm But no rejoicing Except, for the half drunk (how they are still standing!) III Loosed is the lie of rhyme! A veneer That hollowed the tubes Locked still by the storm Their roots, drowned In its benign poison Should guide the doves Through frozen faces