The poem is the eye that cries,
it is the shoulder that cries,
the eye of the shoulder that cries.
It is the hand that cries,
the eye of the hand that cries.
It is the sole that cries,
the eye of the sole that cries.
Oh! you, my friends,
the poem isn't tear,
but the weep itself,
the cry of an eye uninvented,
the tear of the eye-
of that eye that should be beautiful,
the tear of that eye that should be happy.