VII

When will it born. Mother, this fear and this smart,

This ache as of something lost or something near to be found,

Coils like a viscous impossible manner of snake round the heart

And the night, mother, the night without being nor bound!...

Put your arms so much around me, so much, so close so fast

That they cover the eyes of my fancy and cling round my thought's quick ear.

Mother, let us not see if the night will pass or last.

Let us not think nor be... Let life be as if past.

Let our total and infinite death be the day and the ceasing of fear.