These are the winds which beat upon the Doors of Heaven, These are the winds that crossed the sea

And bore up the terns on storm-curtained nights

And these are the winds that assail me. Hard from the Heavens the echoes fall upon my tower,

Relentlessly they shudder the shouldering stones

Beneath the halls of the house built against Time,

And hard they fall against my brittle bones.

Now weavers weave the course cloth of time

And the tailors stitch the gray cloaks of sorrow,

Till the black swans row across the ice-flecked brine

And the bone-colored sun rises tomorrow.