There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the heft
Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are.

None may teach it any,
'Tis the seal of despair,-
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air.

When [bad word]  the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 'tis like the distance
On the look of death.