34my father moved through dooms¹ of lovethrough sames of am through haves of give,singing each morning out of each nightmy father moved through depths of heightthis motionless forgetful where turned at his glance to shining here; that if(so timid air is firm) under his eyes would stir and squirmnewly as from unburied which floats the first who,his april touch drove sleeping selves to swarm² their fates woke dreamers to their ghostly rootsand should some why completely weep my father's fingers brought her sleep:vainly no smallest voice might cry for he could feel the mountains grow.Lifting the valleys of the sea my father moved through griefs of joy; praising a forehead called the moon singing desire into beginjoy was his song and joy so pure a heart of star by him could steer³ and pure so now and now so yes the wrists of twilight⁴ would rejoicekeen as midsummer's keen beyondconceiving mind of sun will stand,so strictly(over utmost himso hugely) stood my father's dreamhis flesh was flesh his blood was blood:no hungry man but wished him food;no cripple wouldn't creep one mileuphill to only see him smile.Scorning the Pomp of must and shallmy father moved through dooms of feel;his anger was as right as rainhis pity was as green as grainseptembering arms of year extend yes humbly⁵ wealth to foe⁶ and friend than he to foolish and to wise  offered immeasurable isproudly and(by octobering flame beckoned)as earth will downward climb, so naked for immortal⁷ work his shoulders marched against the darkhis sorrow was as true as bread:no liar⁸ looked him in the head; if every friend became his foe he'd laugh and build a world with snow.My father moved through theys of we, singing each new leaf out of each tree (and every child was sure that spring danced when she heard my father sing)then let men kill which cannot share, let blood and flesh be mud and mire, scheming imagine,passion willed, freedom a drug that's bought and soldgiving to steal and cruel kind, a heart to fear,to doubt a mind, to differ a disease of same,conform the pinnacle of amthough dull were all we taste as bright, bitter all utterly things sweet,maggoty minus and dumb death all we inherit,all bequeathand nothing quite so least as truth--i say though hate were why men breathe--because my Father lived his soul love is the whole and more than all