This house has been far out at sea
The woods crashing through darknes
Winds stampeding the fields under
Floundering black astride and blin
Till day rose; then under an orang

Once upon a time there was a perso
He was walking along
He met the full burning moon
Rolling slowly twoards him
Crushing the stones and houses by

Who owns those scrawny little feet
Who owns this bristly scorched—loo
Who owns these still—working lungs
Who owns this utility coat of musc
Who owns these unspeakable guts?

With nothing to brag about but the
Tearing boar-flesh and swilling al
A fermenting of huge-chested bragg
Got nowhere by sitting still
To hear some timorous poet enlarge

The stick insect sitting at his st
In the little lamp of his belly is
Lost among glittering traffic, and
A toad is stone-motion, mould-prid
The jewel in this head is the wisd

When Crow was white he decided th
He decided it glared much too whit
He decided to attack it and defeat
He got his strength up flush and i
He clawed and fluffed his rage up.

Crow, feeling his brain slip,
Finds his every feather the fossil
Who murdered all these?
These living dead, that root in hi
Till he is visibly black?

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, yo
With your fresh thoughts care for,
Ah! as the heart grows older

I saw my world again through your
As I would see it again through y
Through your eyes it was foreign.
Plain hedge hawthorns were peculia
A mystery of peculiar lore and doi

The moon not o be named
Going over, clear of all poetry,
The exhauster of the poetical
Faculties of our race, surrenderin
Of her fourth day rights, ignores