I sang a canto in a canton,

Cunning-coo, O, cuckoo cock,

In a canton of Belshazzar

To Belshazzar, putrid rock,

Pillar of a putrid people,

Underneath a willow there

I stood and sang and filled the air.

It was an old rebellious song,

An edge of song that never clears;

But if it did … If the cloud that hangs

Upon the heart and round the mind

Cleared from the north and in that height

The sun appeared and reddened great

Belshazzar’s brow, O, ruler, rude

With rubies then, attend me now.

What is it that my feeling seeks?

I know from all the things it touched

And left beside and left behind.

It wants the diamond pivot bright.

It wants Belshazzar reading right

The luminous pages on his knee,

Of being, more than birth or death.

It wants words virile with his breath.