While the bell that awakens, its voice clear

In clean air and translucent and deep in the morning

And passes on the child who throws an angelus

To please it amongst the lavender and thyme 

The bell ringer touched by the bird he enlightens

Riding sadly by groaning in Latin

On the stone which stretches the age-old rope

Intending to lower to him only a distant ringing 

I am that man.  Alas!  From the willing night

I may pull the cord to ring out the Ideal,

From cold sins a feudal plumage cavorts 

And the voice comes only to me through scraps, hollow

--But one day, tired of pulling with no result

O Satan, I shall remove the stone and hang myself. 

05/16/08