Sometimes the sky's too bright，

　　Or has too many clouds or birds，

　　And far away's too sharp a sun

　　To nourish thinking of him.

　　Why is my hand too blunt

　　To cut in front of me

　　My horrid images for me，

　　Of over-fruitful smiles，

　　The weightless touching of the lip

　　I wish to know

　　I cannot lift， but can，

　　The creature with the angel's face

　　Who tells me hurt，

　　And sees my body go

　　Down into misery？

　　No stopping. Put the smile

　　Where tears have come to dry.

　　The angel's hurt is left；

　　His telling burns.

　　Sometimes a woman's heart has salt，

　　Or too much blood；

　　I tear her breast，

　　And see the blood is mine，

　　Flowing from her， but mine，

　　And then I think

　　Perhaps the sky's too bright；

　　And watch my hand，

　　But do not follow it，

　　And feel the pain it gives，

　　But do not ache.