Oh invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, o world unknowable, we know thee.

Thou cannot stir a flower Without troubling a star.

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there: Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame. With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank, And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.

The innocent moon, that nothing does but shine,Moves all the labouring surges of the world.

Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird.

But lilies, stolen from grassy mold, No more curled state unfold, Translated to a vase of gold; In burning throne though they keep still Serenities unthawed and chill.

The desolation and terror of, for the first time, realizing that the mother can lose you, or you her, and your own abysmal loneliness and helplessness without her.