Crying of wind; moaning of sea; stammer of storm;
Gropings as for a being nowhere found;
Mateless desires, frustrated throbs of air,
Without home, without form.
They sought a lodge in haunted flesh, they sought
The inward tingling sense’s touched accord;
To be delivered, to be born perfect
On shapes of lips, a breathed, a living word,
A flower that seeds its riches, thought from thought,
Incarnate sound, mysterious and elect.