I know this vicious minute's hour

I know this vicious minute's hour;

It is a sour motion in the blood,

That,like a tree,has roots in you,

And buds in you,

Each silver moment chimes in steps of sound,

And I,caught in mid-air perhaps,

Hear and am still the little bird,

You have offended,periodic heart;

You I shall drown unreasonably,

Leave you in me to be found

Darker than ever,

Too full with blood to let my love flow in.

Stop is unreal;

I want reality to hold within my palm,

Not ,as a symbol,stone speaking or no,

But it,reality,whose voice I know

To be the circle not the stair of sound.

Go is my wish;

Then shall I go,

But in the light of going

Minutes are mine

I could devote to other things.

Stop has no minutes,

but I go or die