whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
That square—Oh, 56 x 56
XVII. Greenland
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
Appear to lift up from the lake;
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
IV. The Paths to Cathay
And 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 bees
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
I bring down a bit of its light
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
To have been claimed by what we see of what
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
In the woods, close by,