Make me well, I said — And the delighted touch.
You put dead sweet hand on my dead brain.
The window cleared and the night-street stood black.
As soon as I left your house others besieged me
forcing my motion, saying, Make me well.

Took sickness into the immense street,
but nothing was thriving     I saw blank light     the crazy   
blink of torture      the lack     and there is no
personal sickness strong to intrude there.
Returned. Stood at the window. Make me well.

Cannot? The white sea, which is inviolable,
is no greater, the disallied world’s unable,
daylight horizons of lakes cannot caress me well.