The eyes see (turning inward yet once more)
The mind like a sea floor.
To the first slope clings love, and overhead
Waves that seem monstrous roar
And crash, and run, and to the stunned depths are sped.
In journeying gloom beside, postured or slow-
Twisting, stands all we know.
Light filters through the weeds green and opaque;
What figures come and go
Are blotted over depths light may not undertake.
There, puddled in darkness, grow thick forms
In close and stretching swarms–
The things we love and dare not know we love.
They are not touched by storms.
They change little. No light comes in above.
And down through all a blind, unseating swell
Rolls like a silent bell.
Black, heavy, cold—at last nothing is there
Save deep in that deep well
The crushed and objectless surging of despair.
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