Swing of the heart. O firmly hung, fastened on what

invisible branch. Who, who gave you the push,

that you swung with me into the leaves?

How near I was to the exquisite fruits. But not-staying

is the essence of this motion. Only the nearness, only

toward the forever-too-high, all at once the possible

nearness. Vicinities, then

from an irresistibly swung-up-to place

—already, once again, lost—the new sight, the outlook.

And now: the commanded return

back and across and into equilbrium’s arms.

Below, in between, hesitation, the pull of earth, the passage

through the turning-point of the heavy—, past it: and the

catapult stretches,

weighted with the heart’s curiosity,

to the other side, opposite, upward.

Again how different, how new! How they envy each other

at the ends of the rope, these opposite halves of pleasure.

Or, shall I dare it: these quarters?—And include, since it witholds itself,

that other half-circle, the one whose impetus pushes the swing?

I’m not just imagining it, as the mirror of my here-and-now

arc. Guess nothing. It will be

newer someday. But from endpoint to endpoint

of the arc that I have most dared, I already fully possess it:

overflowings from me plunge over to it and fill it,

stretch it apart, almost. And my own parting,

when the force that pushes me someday

stops, makes it all the more near.