THE REALIZATION By YVOR WINTERS (1900-1968) Death. Nothing is simpler. One is dead. The set face now will fade out; the bare fact, Related movement, regular, intact, Is reabsorbed, the clay is on the bed. The soul is mortal, nothing: the dim head On the dim pillow, less. But thought clings flat To this, since it can never follow that Where no precision of the mind is bred. Nothing to think of between you and All! Screaming processionals of infinite Logic are grinding down receding cold! O fool! Madness again! Turn not, for it Lurks in each paintless cranny, and you sprawl Blurring a definition. Quick! you are old.
Posted on: Thu, 02 Oct 2014 19:53:27 +0000
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