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Along these singing lines that run
from pole to pole, supporting heaven,
I send along to you my portion
of earthly dust.

From wires
to poles. This alley sighs
the telegraphic words: I lo-o-ve...

I beg. (No printed form would
hold that word! But wires are simpler.)
Atlas himself upon these poles
lowered the racetrack
of the Gods.
Along these files the
telegraphic word: g-oo-oodbye...

Do you hear it? This last word
torn from my hoarse throat: Forg-i-ive...
Over these calm Atlantic fields
the rigging holds. And higher, higher,
all the messages fuse together
in Ariadne's web: Retu-u-rn...
And plaintive cries of: I won't leave...
These wires are steely guards upon
voices from Hell,

receding. . . far into that distance,
still implored for some compassion.
Compassion? (But in such a chorus
can you distinguish such a noise?)
That cry, arising as death comes—
through mounds—and ditches—that last
waft of her—passion that persists—
Euridice's: A-a-alas,
and not—a—

1923