• Epiphany, 1937 by George Seferis

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• "-- / I’ve kept a rein on my life, kept a rein on my life, travelling / among yellow trees in driving rain / on silent slopes loaded with beech leaves, / no fire on their peaks; it’s getting dark. / I’ve kept a rein on my life; on your left hand a line / a scar at your knee, perhaps they exist / on the sand of the past summer perhaps / they remain there where the north wind blew as I hear / an alien voice around the frozen lake. / -- / I’ve kept a rein on my life whispering in a boundless silence / I no longer know how to speak nor how to think; whispers / like the breathing of the cypress tree that night / like the human voice of the night sea on pebbles / like the memory of your voice saying ‘happiness’. / -- // I’ve kept a rein on my life, with him, looking for the water that touches you / heavy drops on green leaves, on your face / in the empty garden, drops in the motionless reservoir / striking a swan dead in its white wings / living trees and your eyes riveted. // This road has no end, has no relief, however hard you try / to recall your childhood years, those who left, those / lost in sleep, in the graves of the sea, / however much you ask bodies you’ve loved to stoop / under the harsh branches of the plane trees there / where a ray of the sun, naked, stood still / and a dog leapt and your heart shuddered, / the road has no relief; I’ve kept a rein on my life. // The snow / and the water frozen in the hoofmarks of the horses."