Not death - no poem's yet been writ
on that - but that dark door and passage
where everything, all that one knows of life
must be surrendered, in the service
...
Everything’s going well,
you seem to have everything arranged
as you like it: you glance into
the banqueting hall, the chandelier
...
The brazier’s glowing coals lit up his eyes.
I asked the watchman as he guarded time:
tell me, watchman, of the truth of Night..
...
The dark cloud.
It sits around your head
or inside it, more like.
Around your mind,
...