In Harrow, Elizabeth Robinson enters the crucible of faith found at every meeting of being with world and speaks: "The tongue is a fire, / a sign painter, incendiary paint. / A vocation. / In I go..." The vibrancy of these poems derives from the paradox that this poet expresses both the immanence of the spirit which infuses our daily lives, as well as its provisional, intractable nature. In Harrow, Robinson demonstrates that we exercise our aliveness when we reach into the essence of experience, attempting to grasp exactly that which our grasp cannot contain. "There is no image here / of inevitability, / this woman’s hair drifting / in the labyrinth."