The photic room that thou hast made of me--
Should windows sigh and floors begin to creak
And murmur at the sudden weight of thee--
Should I hurl all my insults at the moon
And master the divine and aching art
Of cursing the sad star at which I swoon--
Find all my arrows broken in the dark--
The song would be the same. The broken hymn
Of which he says, "See, how she sings with weight!"
Would rip from hand and nose and tongue and hip.
The song the faithful bleat knows not of fate.
It lauds (peering around the final breath)
Two white stains on the arid face of death.
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