Paraphrase

Of a steady winking beat between Systole, diastole spokes-of-a-wheel One rushing from the bed at night May find the record wedged in his soul.

Above the feet the clever sheets Lie guard upon the integers of life: For what skims in between uncurls the toe, Involves the hands in purposeless repose.

But from its bracket how can the tongue tell When systematic morn shall sometime flood The pillow--how desperate is the light That shall not rouse, how faint the crow’s cavil

As, when stunned in that antarctic blaze, Your head, unrocking to a pulse, already Hollowed by air, posts a white paraphrase Among bruised roses on the papered wall.