I consider a song will be as humming-bird
Swift, down-light, missile-metal-hard, & strange
As the world of anti-matter
Where they are wondering: does time run backwardâ€”
Which the poet thought was true; Scarlatti-supple;
But can Henry write it?
Wreckt, in deep danger, he shook once his head,
Returning to meditation. And word had sped
All from the farthest West
That Henry was desired: can he get free
Of the hanging menace, & this all, and go?
He doesn’t think so.
Therefore he shakes and he will sing no more,
Much less a song as fast as said, as light,
So deep, so flexing. He broods.
He may, rehearsing, here of his bad year
At the very end, in squalor, ill, outside.
Â€”Happy New Year, Mr Bones.