Hanged in the lovely month of October, My troubles were not over. I thought Hell; But went to Heaven, where bull-necked Angels grabbed and threw me down. Straight they dragged me to the edge Of a cloud, where from a long bar I was hanged again—and this time, drawn, My bowels burned before my eyes. For Hours the black drops welled and shot Twisting to the old and distant earth: Indescribable. But next day I was healed; so they could melt me To hipbones in a tub of cold lye. In Heaven you never lose consciousness. And there is no Hell—but this Heaven, Unroofed against the freezing fog, Whose God is Jean Cauvin’s, Whose dirty work is His alone; nay He Glories in it; so it went on. The Cross? Oh, yes, the cross; many Times; ingeniously refined. Did I Cry, why? Many times. To no answer But the ungentle angels. Finally I understood; and some time later, Was smelted of my crimes. My soul Was good silver, thinner than paper, Stamp-small; such remained; such Big angels brought before the Lord. Who spoke formalities, and sent me Back to the one hell, this earth, Where it is summer always, where men Are animals, where I whisper Like a leaf in the perfect breeze.