Weary of inventions, tired of knowledge,
I cannot write of love let alone love:
Show me then where tenderness lies trembling
Under the dripping caves. Put forth your hands
And touch me soft with a life of knowing
Though the Temple stands in the fog alone
And candles burn all night waiting for my
Shadow on the gate. Hold me, O hold me!
Press the grapes to my lips, teach me the long
Forgotten while the Temple reels strangely
And I ask: On the damp earth in the eaves
Will there be forgiveness?
In the dawn
I shall talk to you of the Homeric sweep
Enfolding mountains and the sounding sea;
And I shall tell you why Tantalus wearied
Of trying, and, wiping away his tears,
Smiled at long last under the apple tree.