The well of life from which I drew
Has caved, open-mouthed to rock.
The things I nearly knew
Have slipped in wet soft thought—

Sick, now, within a winter
Restless with unshed snow—
Love picked unripe turns bitter;
Perverse in breast and shadow.

The sparrows who have found a way
To see beyond the hollowed ground
To vary source without decay
Can drink and drink death down.