Or before, not the white of an aging afternoon, That was different, something else, last year The flowers against the wallĪre white, a little dried, a kind of mark The moving grass, the Indian in his glade.įarewell to an idea. We saw in his head,īlack beaded on the rock, the flecked animal, When he moved so slightly to make sure of sun, This is his poison: that we should disbelieve In the midmost midnight and find the serpent there, Skin flashing to wished-for disappearancesĪnd the serpent body flashing without the skin. These fields, these hills, these tinted distances,Īnd the pines above and along and beside the sea. Or is this another wriggling out of the egg, This is where the serpent lives, the bodiless. Part five, coming next week, will close the essay. I hope you will read and bear with me on this one. Of the poem I discuss next "The Auroras of Autumn." This section of the discussion includes the long poem that follows and the longest section of my argument.
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