Speaker of the poem
Here,
That torrid river of ink stalled to still sunlight.
It was peaceful, and I gazed out knowing
It was all my art—
Dublin became a quiet acceptance,
Then an emphatic yes I said yes I will Yes.

Now I watch you walk through
My open galleries of gaiety,
Teeming with Sentimentalist sacraments—
Crawling out of the grey with a green infancy of persistence,
Like stone bathed in fluid movement
Or sculpture that begins to speak,
You wouldn’t believe what brilliant springs I bore
Through the pangs of their labor—
The living agony of authorship.

Here, I
Pull you out of muddied waters,
For the clay has kept you tender
To meet the day.