The Burning Wheel

Wearied of its own turning, Distressed with its own busy restlessness, Yearning to draw the circumferent pain— The rim that is dizzy with speed— To the motionless centre, there to rest, The wheel must strain through agony On agony contracting, returning Into the core of steel. And at last the wheel has rest, is still, Shrunk to an adamant core: Fulfilling its will in fixity. But the yearning atoms, as they grind Closer and closer, more and more Fiercely together, beget A flaming fire upward leaping, Billowing out in a burning, Passionate, fierce desire to find The infinite calm of the mother's breast...