Clothe me entire in the final filament, So that I tremble with such love so known And myself am precious for your perfecting.
Slowly the ivy on the stones Becomes the stones. Women become The cities, children become the fields And men in waves become the sea.
Red-in-red repetitions never going Away,a little rusty, a little rouged, A little roughened and ruder, a crown<p>The eye could not escape, a red renown Blowing itself upon the tedious ear.
