I know this vicious minute's hour;
It is a sour motion in the blood,
That,like a tree, has roots in you,
And buds in you,
Each silver moment chimes 
      in steps of sound,
And I, caught in mid-air perhaps,
Hear and am still the little bird,
You have offended,periodic heart;
You I shall drown unreasonably,
Leave you in me to be found
Darker than ever,
Too full with blood to let my love flow in.
Stop is unreal;
I want reality to hold within my palm,
Not , as a symbol, stone speaking or no,
But it, reality, whose voice I know
To be the circle not the stair of sound.
Go is my wish;
Then shall I go,
But in the light of going
Minutes are mine
I could devote to other things.
Stop has no minutes,
but I go or die.