His Eyes Are Quickened So With Grief, He Can Watch A Grass Or Leaf Every Instant Grow; He Can Clearly Through A Flint Wall See, Or Watch The Startled Spirit Flee From The Throat Of A Dead Man. Across Two Counties He Can Hear, And Catch Your Words Before You Speak. The Woodlouse Or The Maggot'S Weak Clamour Rings In His Sad Ear; And Noise So Slight It Would Surpass Credence: Drinking Sound Of Grass, Worm-Talk, Clashing Jaws Of Moth Chumbling Holes In Cloth: The Groan Of Ants Who Undertake Gigantic Loads For Honour'S Sake, Their Sinews Creak, Their Breath Comes Thin: Whir Of Spiders When They Spin, And Minute Whispering, Mumbling, Sighs Of Idle Grubs And Flies. This Man Is Quickened So With Grief, He Wanders God-Like Or Like Thief Inside And Out, Below, Above, Without Relief Seeking Lost Love.