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:
Of the fiery event
Of every day in endless
Endless assent