and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
With a hand freed from weight,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
Everywhere, utterly.
Gray the cloud-like oaks
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Preface to the 1948 Edition
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
By the design of our own silent eyes
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
With a hand freed from weight,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
Everywhere, utterly.
Gray the cloud-like oaks
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Preface to the 1948 Edition
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
By the design of our own silent eyes
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
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