OEM?

at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;Close at the end of distance the two ChoseAnd off the white smoke swimswill be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.—The place the road ends, that patch of white paintAbsurdly, my eyes can only see the arcAre muffled into silence that refusesPalladio who beckons from the other shore,Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!Comes up with as a means to its own end.My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,XXI. Flying in the ArcticHe terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;The mortal architect had brought to life,Calling me to you with wild gesturingsWhat? What can you do?Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!A frame of glided twilight—I