Language Is A Virus

Prayer before Work by May Sarton

Great one, austere,
By whose intent the distant star
Holds its course clear,
Now make this spirit soar —
Give it that ease.

Out of the absolute
Abstracted grief, comfortless, mute,
Sound the clear note,
Pure, piercing as the flute:
Give it precision.

Austere, great one,
By whose grace the inalterable song
May still be wrested from
The corrupt lung:
Give it strict form.