I heard a bluebell ring for me,
So I put down my bag,
And stopped my reaching.
No point in trying to catch the sun
Like a prism and bedroom wall -
I cannot take him with me,
Nor the moon in Yeats' silver bag,
Were that a possibility. I heard
The bluebell ring and ceased
My vain attempts at living less
With more, and gave my weary arms
A break from carrying the things
That I cannot take with me.
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