On a letter unwritten

For a swarming of dawns, for a few

wires upon which the loose wool

of life may catch, and string itself

into hours and years, today are the dolphins in pairs

buck-leaping with their children? O that I could hear

nothing of you, could fly from the lightning

of your brow. Far different it is on earth.

Vanish I cannot nor show myself again; it holds back,

the reddening furnace

of the night, the evening lengthens out,

prayer is torture and not yet

among rocks jutting has there come to you

the bottle from the sea. The wave, emptily,

breaks upon the headland, at Finisterre.