St. John's Wort

(Revised)

St. John’s Wort

 

Be it either the bent wind

Or the winter cold, the day

Spun through knuckles then

In growing old goes away

 

This split room, this land to tilt

In towns low, in sick valley skies,

A bleakness curled and built

An impossible incline, I wish to rise

 

In spite of it all, to structure a prior

Height; a helical scaffold to climb

And rise! Rise! Anchor these wires

Light, and more light leads the blind