Tired of a landscape known too wel
The deliberate shallow hills, the
Flying past rocks; tired of rememb
The village children and their nau
He abandoned his small holding and

Higher than the handsomest hotel
The lucent comb shows up for miles
All round it close—ribbed streets
Like a great sigh out of the last
The porters are scruffy; what keep

If hands could free you, heart,
Where would you fly?
Far, beyond every part
Of earth this running sky
Makes desolate? Would you cross

Once I am sure there’s nothing go
I step inside, letting the door th
Another church: matting, seats, an
And little books; sprawlings of fl
For Sunday, brownish now; some br

Choice of you shuts up that peacoc
The future was, in which temptingl
All that elaborative nature can.
Matchless potential! but unlimited
Only so long as I elected nothing

I saw three ships go sailing by,
Over the sea, the lifting sea,
And the wind rose in the morning s
And one was rigged for a long jour
The first ship turned towards the

Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?
Six days of the week it soils

If grief could burn out
Like a sunken coal
The heart would rest quiet
The unrent soul
Be as still as a veil

When I was a child, I thought,
Casually, that solitude
Never needed to be sought.
Something everybody had,
Like nakedness, it lay at hand,

At last you yielded up the album,
Once open, sent me distracted. Al
Matt and glossy on the thick black
Too much confectionery, too rich:
I choke on such nutritious images.