Before pieces are shattered,
Let each shard give memory near,
How soon each shall fall to break,
Till no light would emanate within,
Nor crease air with sound ye crease,
In each of the rays as they fall,
Ash may climb the stems from which broke,
How beautiful it was to hang from above,
That no light may yet disperse its telling,
Then no room to breathe ought to dispel
Each tear from asunder swift they cast.
Even the world ought to turn still,
Then so fast till glass displace,
Nor never no glass be in place: never!
And still she dances at the furor,
Nor agglutinate the steps required,
Till each shard in themselves repiece,
Ere the world’s slowing and respite,
Then no dance is new light without.

%d bloggers like this: