Urn of each sabbath

What goes in the fire steeped in
Lost desire, the companions
Of your root, mist, mind of
God sitting once again with
Lost fire, belonging again, resounding
About the round turn of each
Nocturn; we visit the kingdom and
Find it worn; we roam the urn of
Each sabbath and bind it with this
Salt, here, not in your navel’s
Point of view, but in this atomized
Seascape shuddering to break your
Mouth into a million ungloried
Nays; where is this wine buried but
In the rum of a toasted spirit.
—
Into the organpipes and steeples
Of the luminous cathedrals,
Into the weathercocks’ molten mouths
Rippling in twelve-winded circles,
Into the dead clock burning the hour
Over the urn of sabbaths
Over the whirling ditch of daybreak
Over the sun’s hovel and the slum of fire
And the golden pavements laid in requiems,
Into the bread in a wheatfield of flames,
Into the wine burning like brandy,
The masses of the sea
The masses of the sea under
The masses of the infant-bearing sea
Erupt, fountain, and enter to utter for ever
Glory glory glory
The sundering ultimate kingdom of genesis’ thunder.

Dylan Thomas; from “Ceremony After a Fire Raid”