The wind revels in the quiet night . . .
The Lord has marked the coming day
in a black draft, so as to recreate it
on a clean white copy, and the sky
will be bright in a moment
and will flare in a crimson strip . . .
Is it possible to live without an ideal,
without an absolute, without
that unarguable beginning–
one for all the universe,
without faith, as though in this world–
crazy, sorrowful, arrant,
everything one bright day
must as in childhood coincide with an answer,
that is given in my book of problems?
