Tangle of attachments partially cut
By strokes unclean, unsure,
Are like an eaglet spreading its wings,
Its gaze intent on the high azure.
Flimsier ties with far off things
Drop painlessly, not deeper bonds
Of kinsmen and our dear.
The intimate texture of normal life,
Its prop and its buttress,
Their entreaties now siege my being,
My soul’s fortress.
This search for solitude shall end
As soon as I find
The quarry of silence golden-bright
And leave my bricks behind.
When I return from my lonely flight
Strangers, friends and foes
May beflock me, but I shall stand
Cloven yet close.