Peeled ears limp down at the blurt
                   of sound down to my dun woe,
                   numbing me with down-going gong,
                   wringing me with heavy, club-foot hurt.

                   AND I feel how fey love lights
                   high there, airy-sphered and glowing,
                   floating fancy-high, dancing ballet-bright:
                   glowing-golden ball of rites
                   me below—with hurt, hunched-down hurt,
                   dragging black across the humming nave,
                   mute and lumpish, dinned-down hurt.
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