As if there were no more directions.
Each year from the main shaft bent
And bloomed in various genuflections
Towards what must have seemed
Unending perusals: compliance, defiance.
How many different levels, directed and dreamed?
How many different gropings, restings,
Plungings and undaunted thrustings; until,
Rent in half by its own opposite questings,
And in ignorance of any rooted limitations,
Or the finite universe beyond each massive,
Groaning tendril, it tires: There are no extenuations
Save through regeneration.