24 MARCH 1961, Page 24

The Restored

In a hand like a bowl Danced my own soul, Small as an elf, All by itself.

When she thought I thought She dropped as if shot.

'I've only one wing,' she said, The other's gone dead.'

'I'm maimed; I can't fly; I'm like to die,' Cried the soul From my hand like a bowl.

When I raged, when I wailed, And my reason failed, That delicate thing Grew back a new wing, And danced, at high noon, On a hot, dusty stone, In the still point of light Of my last midnight.