The Criterion/Volume 4/Number 2/Poem
POEM
NO lamp has ever shown us where to lookNeither the promiscuousAnd every-touching moon
nor starsEither with their not much caring
norLights to sea-ward and far offNot meant for us
nor say the flashFrom darkened promontories thatGoes out leaving an afterwardOf trees no morenor evenThe whole sunNoWithinThe buried staring eyes of oneA long time dead, long drowned, there standsStill fixed upon impenetrable skiesThe small black circle of the sun.