Death is high; 
It is where the exalted things are.
I know, for breathlessness took me 
to a five-pointed star.

I was exalted, 
but not at ease in that space.
Beneath me your breathing face 
cried out, Return, Return.

Return, you called while you slept.
And desperately back I crept
Against the ascending fall.

It was not easy to crawl 
against those unending torrents of light,
all bending one way,

and only your voice calling, Stay!
But my longing was great
to be comforted and warmed
once more by your sleeping form,

to be for a while, no higher
than where you are, 
little room, warm love, humble star.