A dove darned cold light to morning
Within the threshold's vaulted hemisphere.
No wind rebuffed or staggered the oncoming.

In candour, a figure—an angel—shone,
Filling the emptiness of the empty tomb:
An opening, a gleaning, a circle, O,

A borrowed garden dismantled in its last hour
And left behind like needless timber—unhewn,
Useless, from which a child without tools,

Without magic, except the magic a child owns,
Puzzles together an image of a throne.