The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bend by the same wintry fever.

It is the measure of my individual struggle from darkness toward some measure of light.

... Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.

Out of the sighs a little comes, But not of grief, for I have knocked down that Before the agony; the spirit grows, Forgets, and cries; A little comes, is tasted and found good....