Some say heaven is a rest, Bright clouds can close out light; But I differ with that crowd And contend my midnight's best. All men are dust and must pluck their theme From passing circumstance--- All that agony but a dying dream Unless it make a farmhand dance. The dervish and his spinning lash, His tongue twisted in trance, Repeats his antic rant before God's whirling face. Loveliness unbridled bore No such look as that; When heaven claps its bony wings Individuation is forgot. But unpopulated heaven, Bare sky among blank fronds, Floods my rebel keel from even--- Sudden with intemperate blood. Robbed of vision I can feel No palpable delight, But stark hands that catch at escaping heels Clasping in the night.