So  ever rules the serpent mathematical:

& if the words that drown in the quicksand
of mind & heart
conquer not the ancient warriors of your grief
What then, Madonna?
Yours is a sadness beyond open windows
& declining dusk
& hymns that crystal in your white white throat
must thus deliver all
from marble caves, ambiguous penitence—

Seize your slab of flesh, my whirlwind to reap
& with the sudden hook of harpoons
thrust imaginary lovers to the pit:
Verily, this is fated

O La Belle Dame Sans Merci
Who by seerage & affliction
Must perish all hearts, all verities!