Sometimes the sky's too bright，

　　Or has too many clouds or birds，

　　And far away's too sharp a sun

　　To nourish thinking of him.

　　Why is my hand too blunt

　　To cut in front of me

　　My horrid¹ images for me，

　　Of over-fruitful smiles，

　　The weightless touching² of the lip

　　I wish to know

　　I cannot lift， but can，

　　The creature with the angel's face

　　Who tells me hurt，

　　And sees my body go

　　Down into misery³？

　　No stopping. Put the smile

　　Where tears have come to dry.

　　The angel's hurt is left；

　　His telling burns.

　　Sometimes a woman's heart has salt，

　　Or too much blood；

　　I tear her breast，

　　And see the blood is mine，

　　Flowing from her， but mine，

　　And then I think

　　Perhaps the sky's too bright；

　　And watch my hand，

　　But do not follow it，

　　And feel the pain it gives，

　　But do not ache.