In view of the fading animals . . .
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Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter,
Out of black bean and wet slate bread,
Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar, . . .
They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, . . .
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing . . .
On this most perfect hill
with these most perfect dogs
are these most perfect people . . .
various sounds, consistently indistinct, like intermingled echoes
struck from thin glasses successively at random— . . .
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached . . .
Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,—
My being is attuned to thee.
Thou settest all my words a-wing, . . .
There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly ,
And should you thousand ages try
The life you've taken to supply, . . .
A thousand martyrs I have made,
All sacrificed to my desire;
A thousand beauties have betrayed, . . .