In the forest—a serpent twist
Of shadow, ensnaring the starlit way of a tree;
If, at your wrist,
The pulse rang never, never, to the slow bells of the sea;
If a star, quick-carven in frost and in amethyst
Shone on the thin, thin finger of dawn, your turning away your face....
You shall be sorry, sorry,
Sorry, for when you die
They shall follow and follow and find you
As you go through the difficult place.