Long months on the rising path
I found where I'd come in
and knew the word of heat, the breath
of air move on my skin

and saw the complex upper light
divide the middle tread
then to my left, the darker flight
that fell back to the dead

So like the ass between two bales
I stopped in the half-shade
too torn to say in which exile
the shame was better paid

And while I stood to dwell upon
My empty-handed quest
I watched the early morning sun
send down its golden ghost

it paused just on the lowest step
as if upon a hinge
then slowly drew the dark back up
like blood in a syringe

and suddenly I did not care
if I had lived or died
But then my hand fell on the lyre
that hung dead at my side

and with as plain a stoke I knew
I let each gutstring sound
and listened to the notes I drew
go echoing underground

and somewhere in the afternoon
the thrush's quick reply -
and in that instant knew I'd found
my perfect alibi

No singer of the day or night
is lucky as I am
the dark my sounding-board, the light
my auditorium