146

For Eliot the shapes of
            Them all fled before him
                        And his body fled from
Him and the light was
            Dark and bright in the
                        Chipped plaster coving and
The ceiling was low like
            A shell and their faces flew
                        Away in his tremors.
For John looking at
            Eliot convulsing on the bed
                        The shape of him was all
There was as if his
            Whole had broken into
                        Only several white motions.
And the light too for
            Him was hollow like in
                        A shell with a candleflame.
But it was hallowed in
            The light of what he could
                        Not know what it was:
Death. The blue hills and
            Far off broken mountains
                        Veered in rain in the candle-
Light from the half drawn
            Drapes of bleached silk, the
                        Membrane of doily cotton.
The rucked up bedclothes
            Looked to John like wings
                        At his brother's shoulders.