The shroud he kept in the middle drawer, Unwashed, perfumed with the damp Of the church vault where he lay the week Before his soul returned. He never Spoke of what had happened then, But muttered, The light, the light, When the bells were rung for matins, nones And vespers. He never blinked; somehow We knew it was heaven, not hell, Who had sent him back to us. He never Touched his tools again, or wife. He spent The days immersing himself in freezing water And letting his garments dry on him all night. When asked how he bore it, he replied, I have seen a greater cold.