It

It comes to wound; it rides the storm,

It turns you round; it points the way,

It folds your mind; it makes you still,

It binds the hours; it holds the day.

 

It teaches nothing you would learn,

It ends beginnings with a sigh,

It makes the truth a poet's tale,

It sanctifies the oldest lie.

 

It winds confusion round your soul,

It lifts you up on ageless wings,

It speaks in riddles lost for words

It writes the song the angel sings.

 

It ties you down; it sets you free,

It drowns the night with bitter tears,

It calms the heart; it fires the blood,

It brings you low; it ends your fears.

 

It tells of joy; it brings you pain,

It scorns all wisdom from above,

It locks the door; it finds the key,

It breaks the chain and it is love.