Poem: Hart Crane

O caught like pennies beneath soot and steam,
Kiss of our agony thou gatherest;
Condensed, thou takest all - shrill ganglia
Impassioned with some song we fail to keep.
And yet, like Lazarus, to feel the slope,
The sod and billow breaking, - lifting ground,
- A sound of waters bending astride the sky
Unceasing with some Word that will not die . . .