may then my fletchings, commemorative
of our singular fires, so heady their hearths,
forgatherers watchful, incinerative,
not measure in ashes whence passion departs?
and cannot these blessings, illuminative,
what settle, deceiving, the question of length
ever borne in my sailing, communicative
of pleasure--inaction--misreckon my strength?
would all of our masters, so literate, pith
of our mammering shackles, our fortress of flesh,
almighty yet doubtless, dismissing my gift,
forsake in this flailing their duty to thresh?
and will not the oxen, awakened, forgive
the glint of the ploughshare? and under their breadth
lay missives for bedding, the better to live
unaligned with the aurochs, advancing, to death?