Happy art thou, my phanton saint,
As the quill draws out the whorls of pain
And the letter blossoms into a rose;
Word by word the slow book grows.
Out of the window I see the stream
Cleave the hill with a broken gleam.
The autumn sunset burns to a scar
And the sky is healed with a single star.
Around thee the pools of shadow blend,
Fingers loosen and labours end.
The ink has dried on the supple quill
And sunset burned out over the hill.
Thou hast left thy work, O my phantom saint,
Unfinished, but not one letter faint.
The spirit blossoms into a rose,
And word by word the slow book grows.