Anaphora

Each day with so much ceremony begins, with birds, with bells, with whistles from a factory; such white-gold skies our eyes first open on, such brilliant walls that for a moment we wonder 'Where is the music coming from, the energy? The day was meant for what ineffable creature we must have missed? ' Oh promptly he appears and takes his earthly nature instantly, instantly falls victim of long intrigue, assuming memory and mortal mortal fatigue. More slowly falling into sight and showering into stippled faces, darkening, condensing all his light; in spite of all the dreaming squandered upon him with that look, suffers our uses and abuses, sinks through the drift of bodies, sinks through the drift of classes to evening to the beggar in the park who, weary, without lamp or book prepares stupendous studies: the fiery event of every day in endless endless assent.