A bell diphthonging in an atmosphere
Of shying night air summons some to prayer
Down in the town, two deep lone miles from here,
Yet wallows faint or sudden everywhere,
In every ear, as if the twist wind wrung
Some ten years’ tangled echoes from the air.
What kyries it says are mauled among
The queer elisions of the mist and murk,
Of lights and shapes; the senses were unstrung,
Except that one star’s synecdochic smirk
Burns steadily to me, that nothing’s odd
And firm as ever is the masterwork.
I weary of the confidence of God.