“O, Muse! Thou Art, hath gave thy Soul, As Lore finds way of all, to be What folds within the one that bends A dream, apart – as what departures whole?.. By knot, conceives A-Onothingness in thee - And where’s not if O-Anoticeness holds ends?!..
O, Muse! Thy Soul, knead beats, where’s Pulse To human world, a mystery, adheres to be - As all they ever knew, rely on paths; To follow, or to lead, hath use! Avulse, Not more than less, nor such as rise in thee What seed it is within a tree. Thy Soul, enwraps, And stirs the echo where thou art impulse!.. “