The Diamond Cutter

Not what the light will do but how he shapes it

And what particular colours it will bear.

And something of the climber's concentration

Seeing the white peak, setting the right foot there.

Not how the sun was plausible at morning

Nor how it was distributed at noon,

And not how much the single stone could show

But rather how much brilliance it would shun:

Simply a paring down, a cleaving to

One object, as the star-gazer who sees

One single comet polished by its fall
Rather than countless, untouched galaxies.