Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/50

 And I, the climbing tip Of that old ivy, time, To waver swaying over a blind wall With all To-day to dream in, and, behind, The never-resting root Through my live body drives The living shoot, The climbing ivy-tip of time.

I am a room at the end of a long journey The windows of which open upon the night Or perhaps Nothing—

I am a room at a passage end where lies Huddled in darkness one that door by door