Tae light of day goes a long way into the tunnel—
Not sunlight itself, but water-light Distinct from the sun's golden wine : It pours through the neck, and we jerk along the funnel Straining with us the last grey vertical line.
But in vain, for the eyeballs press against black pansies And globe-feather poppies that cannot grow in the light ; Eye-fuls of weighing dark softness.
Then one of the petals is torn, and in faster succession
From grey to grey brick-line brightening the strokes steal back ; Till unbroken brook-light, and out between fields flooded Flower-deep in the sun's wine.