The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low; . . .
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Somewhere, someone is asking a question,
and I stand squinting at the classroom
with one hand cupped behind my ear, . . .
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, . . .
Intractable between them grows
a garden of barbed wire and roses.
Burning briars like flames devour . . .
Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspiration of my youth, to build . . .
"Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet . . .
I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen,
and so I swung into action and wrote a poem,
. . .
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born, . . .
In the backyard of our house on Norwood,
there were five hundred steel cages lined up,
each with a wooden box . . .
I grow old under an intensity
Of questioning looks. Nonsense,
I try to say, I cannot teach you children . . .