The wind suffers of blowing. The sea suffers of water, And fire suffers of burning. And I of a living name. As stone suffers of stoniness, As light of its shiningness, As birds of their wingedness, So I of my whoness. And what the cure of all this? What the not and not suffering? What the better and later of this? What the more me of me? How for the pain-world to be More world and no pain? How for the old rain to fall More wet and more dry? How for the willful blood to run More salt-red and sweet-white? And how for me in my actualness To more shriek and smile? But no other miracles, By the same knowing poison, By an improved anguish, By my further dying. |