a fine wind is blowing the new direction of time.
if only i let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!
if only i am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!
if only, most lovely of all, i yield myself and am borrowed
by the fine, fine wind that takes its course through the chaos of the world
like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;
if only i am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge
driven by invisible blows,
the rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the hesperides. oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,
i would be a good fountain, a good well-head,
would blur no whisper, spoil no expression. what is the knocking?
what is the knocking at the door in the night?
It is somebody wants to do us harm. no, no, it is the three strange angels.
admit them, admit them. d.h. lawrence