" Somewhere between brute silence and last Sunday's Thirteen hundred thousand sermons; Somewhere between Calvin on Christ (God help us!) and the lizards; Somewhere between seeing and speaking, somewhere Between our soiled and greasy currency of words And the first star, the great moths fluttering About the ghosts of flowers, Lies the clear place where I, no longer I, Nevertheless remember Love's nightlong wisdom of the other shore; And, listening to the wind, remember too That other night, that first of widowhood, Sleepless, with death beside me in the dark. Mine, mine, all mine, mine inescapably! But I, no longer I, In this clear place between my thought and silence See all I had and long, anguish and joys, Glowing like gentians in the Alpine grass, Blue, unpossessed and open. "