Out of the deeps rise the days, climb dawns and peak noons
Over dry fields dragging or drenched seabeds,
Over boughs bearing fertile buds and flowers;
Out comes the star-doggèd sun, a scent of the moon
Over fish, gulls flocking and flying seabound,
Over shoreside sheep and shepherds alike.
On the rest, rain falls ruin for the evening;
Daylong drifting drowns in the nighttime,
Sinks to the seabed, stifled and constant;
No shifting to shore but towards shallows of death.
When all is authored, what aches to be writ
But the death of the deity who drafted it?

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