How Soon The Servant Sun

How soon the servant sun, (Sir morrow mark), Can time unriddle, and the cupboard stone, (Fog has a bone He'll trumpet into meat), Unshelve that all my gristles have a gown And the naked egg stand straight, Sir morrow at his sponge, (The wound records), The nurse of giants by the cut sea basin, (Fog by his spring Soaks up the sewing tides), Tells you and you, my masters, as his strange Man morrow blows through food. All nerves to serve the sun, The rite of light, A claw I question from the mouse's bone, The long-tailed stone Trap I with coil and sheet, Let the soil squeal I am the biting man And the velvet dead inch out. How soon my level, lord, (Sir morrow stamps Two heels of water on the floor of seed), Shall raise a lamp Or spirit up a cloud, Erect a walking centre in the shroud, Invisible on the stump A leg as long as trees, This inward sir, Mister and master, darkness for his eyes, The womb-eyed, cries, And all sweet hell, deaf as an hour's ear, Blasts back the trumpet voice.