I got so I could take his name— Without—Tremendous gain— That Stop-sensation—on my Soul— And Thunder—in the Room—
I got so I could walk across That Angle in the floor, Where he turned so, and I turned—how— And all our Sinew tore—
I got so I could stir the Box— In which his letters grew Without that forcing, in my breath— As Staples—driven through—
Could dimly recollect a Grace— I think, they call it “God”— Renowned to ease Extremity— When Formula, had failed—
And shape my Hands— Petition’s way, Tho’ ignorant of a word That Ordination—utters—
My Business, with the Cloud, If any Power behind it, be, Not subject to Despair— It care, in some remoter way, For so minute affair As Misery— Itself, too vast, for interrupting—more—
