Grief is good, O naked shivering—
Grief, the last full blossom
In the rich, rich ***** of spring
Laden with hues, their gentle smother;
Reap it they and morph a shrine:
Grief, the violent girl of a silenced mother.
Grief, the first decay of decay old
As the sky beats down and down,
Burning all green to gold.
Grief, the cunning god
That quietens, and teaches the art of scream.
Grief then, the ripe fruit’s bitter-sweet cold.
The first fall that a thousand follow,
Crystal chambers of the first frail flake.
Then, hues that all white swallow.

On, on swirls the necklace.
A countless tyrant beads
Still, countless laced with grace
True, shrines tumble, and daughters weep,
Falls then burn, and summers melt
Thirst and ash into fruit do seep.
This despairing tickle in so deep—
But suns to snow and sweet still on subside
Own thus the jewel, and, hush, be off to sleep.
Oh, in here a faceless sky long stubborn stood;
Years blank, till snow and sun lit up from soot

O naked shivering, grief is good.