What little quaver the world did feel,
at every dropping blood and nefarious doings.
At every crutch knocked loose, at every noose tightened
and tightened and seeking work.
At every grain traveling in accordance.
At every root dug up.
At every lisping soul.
At every deadening of limbs.
At every mother spewing life, and then extinguished like a lamp.
For such quaver or quiver is needless in the progressing light;
we stand as stone, we kneel as stone, we bend as stone.
How comforting it is,
to be without movement.
We are rock, crushing upon the world’s back.
And we call it New World.
