THE FIRST YEAR
[ALL SOULS’ DAY]
(i)
Here in my darkness
I lie in the depths of things,
As in a black wood whereof flowers and boughs are the roots,
And the moist-branching tendrils and ligaments,
Woven or spiralled or spreading, the roof of my head,
Blossomless, birdless, starless, skied with black earth,
A ponderous heaven.
But they forget,