whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,That square—Oh, 56 x 56XVII. GreenlandIts consciousness of my white consciousness,At four, the spectators leave in pairs, offAppear to lift up from the lake;When I am heard, and what I say is solelyIV. The Paths to CathayAnd then I go on until I am beneath an archway,Between the high and the low, in this night.Dismal, endless plain—And beyond, the same sound of beesmarked with a dark stroke from the left, encroachedI bring down a bit of its light—The place the road ends, that patch of white paintTo have been claimed by what we see of whatsnoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,In the woods, close by,