A light says why. From all the poor prying¹. Again we attain² a more

    regal posture——small bird accompanying slips between our whim³.

    Where will we flicker⁴， loose as two feathers from a wren's back？ Gone，

    do not brood for all the hands that miss you. They hardly hold. Don't

    wait， one who thought a dark eye could save you， like night with its black

    paws curled and gone to sleep. There are only two names to remember，

    Loss and Pleasure， crossed in this field like no man's borrowed light. Call

    the far-sighted foxes to the launching. Call the small deer scattered⁵ in

    the back brush， swift as flit. Contingency⁶ has arms and hands and wasted

    faces. And a body， shrunk and scurvy⁷， built to burn.

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