When the hand lays on sights, dead,
That collapsed dust from earlier time,
That acceded some time beyond the winds, lead
With the lining, cried at first breath.
Doth the rooms that kiss the gold of night
As when the mutters of veiled chance
Bested the light that silence commended, strife,
As the rivers bound to death as the unquiet light.
When thy heart withers at unborn tears,
Beyond the dressing of the sea, condemned
By the forthright waves that wallow sails
And willow them too, no more from a valley dale,
The rivers that reflected the moon
That dream for light to chill the dell
And when among the intone, it broods and dwells,
The everlasting song, thy unrest that shines the wells,
That laid the dirge of the last sight,
With unrest from the earlier time (which is change),
With the lining, alive, above a river of dead…