The Corner

I doubt the good of it,
But no one prays,
And if I say that where,
Into this hanger,

This grey mead cuts,
Below nuttals and silver
Legs of ash, where
A green cress flows,

Is a corner which is
Somehow holy, I must mean
It is somehow-apt
Deeply to man. “Somehow”,

I must say as well, was once
The god by another name.
“Somehow” was his unspoken
Name; and to him

In these days, I say
Again, and I doubt
The good of this, now
No one, no one prays.