You rid your blood of the sound of sea,
You hush your boasting heart and make
Your flesh as meek as your ash will be,
Cooling it well for your hands' hot sake,
Until your hands lie still together
Like one were stone and the other feather.

You press all beauty into word
So burning that it may accuse
Like a sorrow, like a sword.
You lose yourself to wear the shoes
Of sleep, and go where is no knowing
And the wind is blind with its own blowing.

If you have what life cannot take,
It is so nearly death's, no name
Will utter it. It is an ache
Grown numb: incurious love of flame
Upon the unseen hearth, the near
Beat of rain you do not hear.