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Somewhere dwells Gold in a
swaddling Bank,
and with Thousands treats intimately.
Yet that
Blindman, the Beggar, is himself to the copper Groat
like a lost Spot, like the dusty Corner under the Cabinet.
In the Shops a-row is Geld
quite at home
and decks itself seeming in Silk, Carnations and Pelt.
He, the Speechless, stands in the Breathingroom
all of watchful or nodding breathing Geld.
O how can it close at Night,
that always open Hand?
Tomorrow brings it forth Fate again, and daily
bears it thus back: bright, wretched, endlessly destructible.
That one might, a Seer,
finally its long Standing
astounded conceive and praise. Only to
the Singing ceded.
Only to the Godlike audible.
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