The poem
By your unnumbered charities A miracle disclose, Lord of the Images, whose love The eyelids and the rose Takes for a language, and today Tell to me what is said By these men in a turnip field And their unleavened bread.
For all things seem to figure out The stirrings of your heart, And two men pick the turnips up And two men pull the cart; And yet between the four of them No word is ever said Because the yeast was not put in Which makes the human bread. But three men stare on vacancy And one man strokes his knees; What is the meaning to be found In such dark vowels as these?
Lord of the Images, whose love The eyelid and the rose Takes for a metaphor, today, Beneath the warder's blows, The unleavened man did not cry out Or turn his face away; Through such men in a turnip field What is it that you say?