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Homeward into the howling woods, although
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
Against this sky no longer of our world.
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Oh you builders,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
Glimmering of light:
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps