Sunday, January 29, 2006


Pushing through the holly-prickle teeth
Of the quick, ambitious wind,
I trickle like the lock gates trickle,
Shut against the higher level;
And pull at my stickle back nest;
Where the best grass grows
And everybody knows and is known.
I lie alone and think how to atone
For the mind and manners I have grown;
And how I can be free
From the wreathes of tiredness claiming me.

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