This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,
Contains all that was sweet and innocent ; . . .
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Suppose I said the word “springtime”
and I wrote the words “king salmon”
on a piece of paper . . .
When love was a question, the message arrived
in the beak of a wire and plaster bird. The coloratura
was hardly to be believed. For flight, . . .
The lords of life, the lords of life,—
I saw them pass,
In their own guise, . . .