The Spirit Medium

Poetry, music, I have loved, and yet

Because of those new dead

That come into my soul and escape

Confusion of the bed,

Or those begotten or unbegotten

Perning in a band,

I bend my body to the spade

Or grope with a dirty hand.

Or those begotten or unbegotten,

For I would not recall

Some that being unbegotten

Are not individual,

But copy some one action,

Moulding it of dust or sand,

I bend my body to the spade

Or grope with a dirty hand.

An old ghost's thoughts are lightning,

To follow is to die;

Poetry and music I have banished,

But the stupidity

Of root, shoot, blossom or clay

Makes no demand.

I bend my body to the spade

Or grope with a dirty hand.