I must die in his debt. He is my friend And will forgive me. Write that hope. Then write For her, for Antoinette de Bourignon (Who spoke to me, when I despaired, of God’s Timeless and spaceless point of Infinite Love) That, trusting her and Him, I turn my face To the bare wall, and leave this world of things For the No-thing she shewed me, when I came Halting to Germany, to seek her out. Now sign it, Swammerdam, and write the date, March, 1680, and then write my age His forty-third year. His small time’s end. His time— Who saw Infinity through countless cracks In the blank skin of things, and
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