Old man, you surface seldom. Then you come in with the tide’s coming When seas wash cold, foam— Capped: white hair, white beard,

No novice In those elaborate rituals Which allay the malice Of knotted table and crooked chair… The new woman in the ward

My father kept a vaulted conch By two bronze bookends of ships in… And as I listened its cold teeth… With voices of that ambiguous sea Old Böcklin missed, who held a sh…

This is newness: every little tawd… Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculia… Glinting and clinking in a saint’s… Don’t know what to make of the sud… The blind, white, awful, inaccessi…

From under the crunch of my man’s… green oat-sprouts jut; he names a lapwing, starts rabbits… legging it most nimble to sprigged hedge of bramble,

Since Christmas they have lived w… Guileless and clear, Oval soul—animals, Taking up half the space, Moving and rubbing on the silk

We came over the moor—top Through air streaming and green—li… Stone farms foundering in it, Valleys of grass altering In a light neither dawn

Two, of course there are two. It seems perfectly natural now —— The one who never looks up, whose… And balled? like Blake’s. Who exhibits

Now coldness comes sifting down, l… To our bower at the lily root. Overhead the old umbrellas of summ… Wither like pithless hands. There… Hourly the eye of the sky enlarges…