The wind blew all my wedding—day,
And my wedding—night was the night
And a stable door was banging, aga
That he must go and shut it, leavi
Stupid in candlelight, hearing rai

Morning, a glass door, flashes
Gold names off the new city,
Whose white shelves and domes trav
The slow sky all day.
I land to stay here;

They fuck you up, your mum and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their t

Once I believed in you,
And then you came,
Unquestionably new, as fame
Had said you were. But that was l
You launched no argument,

Is it for now or for always,
The world hangs on a stalk?
Is it a trick or a trysting—place,
The woods we have found to walk?
Is it a mirage or miracle,

After comparing lives with you for
I see how I’ve been losing: all t
I’ve met a different gauge of girl
Grant that, and all the rest makes
My mortification at your pushovers

The eye can hardly pick them out
From the cold shade they shelter i
Till wind distresses tail and main
Then one crops grass, and moves ab
—The other seeming to look on—

For nations vague as weed,
For nomads among stones,
Small—statured cross—faced tribes
And cobble—close families
In mill—towns on dark mornings

Like the train’s beat
Swift language flutters the lips
Of the Polish airgirl in the corn
The swinging and narrowing sun
Lights her eyelashes, shapes

This empty street, this sky to bla
This air, a little indistinct with
Like a reflection, constitute the
A time traditionally soured,
A time unrecommended by event.