Flaws in the burning-glass - the heart perhaps
left empty, or a limbus wounded, or
the arc imperfect - and its virtues lapse:
its gathered light, achieves a point no more,
only a wan aureola, shadow-sun.
And I have seen a watch (the escapement wried)
in helpless fever all-but-invisibly run
past any meaning, till the spiral died.

Who is the lends your presence must perfect;
and, like the glass in darkness, have no power
without your sun to focus and reflect?
Who is the watch whose motion you must keep?
A day or death can else fill every hour
with time amok, or with all springs asleep.