All day she stands before her loom:
she had a sudden vision in the night.

Lord, on thee my trust is grounded:
my straying thoughts, reduced stay.

One wept whose only child was dead;
strange that self’s continuum should outlast.

There is a fish: there is a poem on the way.
When I am forty, two feathers shall spring.

. . . . . . .

spb: so