by Robert Penn Warren

    So hangs the hour like fruit fullblown and sweet，

    Our strict and desperate avatar，

    Despite that antique westward gulls lament

    Over enormous waters which retreat

    Weary unto the white and sensual star.

    Accept these images for what they are——

    Out of the past a fragile element

    Of substance into accident.

    I would speak honestly and of a full heart；

    I would speak surely for the tale is short，

    And the soul's remorseless catalogue

    Assumes its quick and piteous sum.

    Think you， hungry is the city in the fog

    Where now the darkened piles resume

    Their framed and frozen prayer

    Articulate and shafted in the stone

    Against the void and absolute air.

    If so the frantic breath could be forgiven，

    And the deep blood subdued before it is gone

    In a savage paternoster to the stone，

    Then might we all be shriven.