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Spelt From Sibyls Leaves

by
 Earnest, earthless, equal, attuneable, ' vaulty, voluminous, .
.
.
stupendous Evening strains to be tíme's vást, ' womb-of-all, home-of-all, hearse-of-all night.
Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, ' her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height Waste; her earliest stars, earl-stars, ' stárs principal, overbend us, Fíre-féaturing heaven.
For earth ' her being has unbound, her dapple is at an end, as- tray or aswarm, all throughther, in throngs; ' self ín self steepèd and páshed—qúite Disremembering, dísmémbering ' áll now.
Heart, you round me right With: Óur évening is over us; óur night ' whélms, whélms, ánd will end us.
Only the beak-leaved boughs dragonish ' damask the tool-smooth bleak light; black, Ever so black on it.
Óur tale, O óur oracle! ' Lét life, wáned, ah lét life wind Off hér once skéined stained véined variety ' upon, áll on twó spools; párt, pen, páck Now her áll in twó flocks, twó folds—black, white; ' right, wrong; reckon but, reck but, mind But thése two; wáre of a wórld where bút these ' twó tell, each off the óther; of a rack Where, selfwrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless, ' thóughts agaínst thoughts ín groans grínd.

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