The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
 And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
 Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
 As false dawn.
 Outside the open window
 The morning air is all awash with angels.
  Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
 Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
 Now they are rising together in calm swells
 Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
 With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;
  Now they are flying in place, conveying
 The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
 And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
 They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
 That nobody seems to be there.
 The soul shrinks
  From all that it is about to remember,
 From the punctual rape of every blessèd day,
 And cries,
 “Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
 Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
 And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.”
  Yet, as the sun acknowledges
 With a warm look the world’s hunks and colors,
 The soul descends once more in bitter love
 To accept the waking body, saying now
 In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,
  “Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
 Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
 Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
 And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
 Of dark habits,
  keeping their difficult balance.”


















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