Of saints that punish and sinners that cower,
Of troubles by sickness and sword and flame,
And not of an innocent daisy flower!
I am haunted by words—by seven words—
Seven words echoing everywhere;
They are borne on breezes, and sung by birds,
They are written on earth and sea and air.
I think there is nothing else is my own;
I think there is nothing else is alive;
Seven words and I are always alone;