No lamp so bright
As this whose fist of light
Beats on my table

See, in this syllable
‘Omega', the crust, the plaited
Muscle of rhyme dsicarded
For sleep at last; these pages
With their clear images
Labyrinth and thread
Of words twitched by the dead
Whose songs I hear, and shall,
But may not equal,

Circle
Bright replica and house
Of the wide universe
And the sun's good;
Sigh, that too well describes
Our birth, our mood