Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
The mortal architect had brought to life,
That images of roads, whether composed
I bring down a bit of its light
Glimmering of light:
This third day of our January thaw,
Before those virile women!
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
The pain of being born into matter.