Things of This World1956The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astoundedsoul
Hangs for a moment bodiless andsimple
As false dawn.Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash withangels.Some are in bed-sheets, some arein blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly therethey are.
Now they are rising together in calmswells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever theywear
With the deep joy of their impersonalbreathing;Now they are flying in place,conveying
The terrible speed of theiromnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and nowof a sudden
They swoon down in so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.The soul shrinksFrom all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of everyblessed day,
And cries,"Oh, let there be nothing onearth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the risingsteam
And clear dances done in the sight ofheaven."Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world's hunksand colors,
The soul descends once more in bitterlove
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawnsand rises,"Bring them down from their ruddygallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backsof thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to beundone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a purefloating
Of dark habits,keeping their difficultbalance."