Page:On a grey thread (IA ongreythread00gidl).pdf/35

Time is a rhymeless poem
Without any end
Written in space,
Here at the world's summit
Where life-giving winds
Sharply whip one's face.
Life is the one reality,
Life intensely realized,
Life wildly felt;
Death is an ungrasped dream,
A vague monstrous fable,
A puzzle still unspelt.

Alone . . . alone . . . alone . . .
No other thing that breathes
In this keen place.
O my new joy,
Joy of singing summits,
Of endless, vibrant space!
Stars, stars, stoop down,
Stars, turn from your courses,
Spill into my hands!
Stars, you are my kindred:
I am strong with a new loneliness
That no one understands.

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