Shall the wound of the world be my wound,
That I cannot shake off the cold hands of clay?

I have seen a golden-white face, young and close to mine,
Dear and unknown, waken and vanish away,
I have seen the most deeply-known of all faces deepen and vanish away,
I have distilled from the sun
And from the cool of evenings and of dawns
And from the beauty of all my strangers, one by one,
My potion. I have drunk my fill ...

O let me lift the cup to you, strange god, to say
That I have no more will
To shake off now the moon-cold hands of clay.
I drain the cup to you, white stranger, who arrive
Silent — silent with the wound of the world, my wound.