Anaphora

Each day with so much ceremony

begins, with birds, with bells,

with whistles from a factory;

such white-gold skies our eyes

first open on, such brilliant walls

that for a moment we wonder

"Where is the music coming from, the energy?

The day was meant for what ineffable creature

we must have missed?" Oh promptly he

appears and takes his earthly nature

   instantly, instantly falls

   victim of long intrigue,

   assuming memory and mortal

   mortal fatigue.

More slowly falling into sight

and showering into stippled faces,

darkening, condensing all his light;

in spite of all the dreaming

squandered upon him with that look,

suffers our uses and abuses,

sinks through the drift of bodies,

sinks through the drift of vlasses

to evening to the beggar in the park

who, weary, without lamp or book

   prepares stupendous studies:

   the fiery event

   of every day in endless

   endless assent.