hooded in purpose, motionless in growth,
broken like hostbread to Thy worship's oath,
intact in essence, one though convolute.
My edge was turned as though my steel were lead:
perceive the dusty mount that marks me; yet
the very self that sinned has no regret,
for I am most myself when I am dead.
Grant me my strength again with moving pain,
that after regrowth may mine edge be keen;
O, come Thou in Thy singleness to glean
my dust and find the missing vital grain.
(note: the god addressed is not Christ but Apollo)
[from No Apology for Poetrie,: and other poems written, 1922-1931]