Flowing and veiling and peeled back, the tide
Washed the bulk of timber
Beached on the mud, so heavy
Twelve horses could not pull it.
A lay brother rose at dawn, and saw it moved,
The weight melted away,
To the shore below the water-gate.
He rolled it easily as far as the cloister.
At rest on the lip of weathered
Rough steps and the icy pavement,
It paused among the kneeling poor
The bark still crude and whole.
It takes the blind man’s fingers
Blessing himself in the entry
To find the secret water treasured
In the tree’s elbow; he washes his eyes and sees
A leaf cutting its way to the air
Inside a tower of leaves,
The virgin’s almond shrine, its ivory lids parting
Behind lids of gold, bursting out of the wood.