Only ash may fully be implicit,
May in bright beginning fire be end.
Front smooth who in the antlered god lie tacit,
Impediment who on his tongue portend,
You fine obscurity (how clear!) to whose
One soot the coroneted flame will come,
Allow it, that is godhead of our use,
So long to lord as, discontinuum
Between the dark and dark, it is not form
But form eluded: now the lick that forks
And now its undivided answer—storm
Before the calm, and in the heats of sex
Their branching sconce of other sex that waits.
Sustain, undifferentiated fall,
Upon our hearth the sparkling marquisates,
High, blazing earldoms to which dark is thrall.
Below each bare, each hardly trophied mantel
Create forever new the dartling stag
And forehead sprouting; past the newest lintel
Illusion there is home, and tongues that speak.
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