LXII I read the primrose and the sea and remember nothing I read Arcturus and the snow and remember nothing I read the green and white book of spring and remember nothing I read the hatred in a man?s eye Lord, I remember nothing. Scorn spat at me and spoke I remember it not The river was frozen round the ship I remember it not I found a secret message in a blade of grass and it is forgotten I called my lovers by their sweet names they are all forgotten. Where are my lovers now? buried in me. The blades of grass, the ships, the scorners? here in me The haters in the spring, snow and Arcturus? here in me The primrose and the sea? here in me. I know what humans know no less no more I know how the summer breaks on Neptune?s shore I know how winter freezes the Milky Way My heart?s home is in Limbo and there I stay. Praise Limbo, heart, and praise forgetfulness We know what the tiger knows no more no less We know what the primrose thinks and think it too We walk when the snail walks across the dew. I was a rash man in my time but now I am still I spoke with god?s voice once now I am still Evil made my right hand strong which now is still Wisdom gave me pride once, but it is still. Lie down poor heart at last and have your rest Remember to forget and have your rest Think of yourself as once you were at your best And then lie down alone and have your rest. These things are as time weaves them on his loom Forgot, forgetting, we survive not mortal bloom Let us give thanks, to space, for a little room Space is our face and time our death two poles of doom Come dance around the compass pointing north Before, face downward, frozen, we go forth. LXIII Thus systole addressed diastole,? The heart contracting, with its grief of burden, To the lax heart, with grief of burden gone. Thus star to dead leaf speaks; thus cliff to sea; And thus the spider, on a summer?s day, To the bright thistledown, trapped in the web. No language leaps this chasm like a lightning: Here is no message of assuagement, blown From Ecuador to Greenland; here is only A trumpet blast, that calls dead men to arms; The granite?s pity for the cloud; the whisper Of time to space.