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giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Along the walls are only empty niches,
A frame of glided twilight—I
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Figures of light and dark, these two are walking
The pain of being born into matter.
The mortal architect had brought to life,
A frame of glided twilight—I
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
V. The Dutch in the Arctic
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,