They called the place Lookout Farm. Back then, the sun
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My father kept a vaulted conch By two bronze bookends of ships in sail,
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This is newness : every little tawdry
Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,
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Nightfall, cold eye—neither disheartens These goatish tragedians who
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O maiden aunt, you have come to call. Do step into the hall!
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Woodsmoke and a distant loudspeaker
Filter into this clear
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That lofty monarch, Monarch Mind,
Blue-blooded in coarse contry reigned;
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I came before the water ---
Colorists came to get the
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Midnight in the mid-Atlantic. On deck.
Wrapped up in themselves as in thick veiling
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Hearing a white saint rave About a quintessential beauty
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The enormous mortgage must be paid somehow, so if you can dream up any saving plan
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An ill wind is stalking While evil stars whir
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First frost, and I walk among the rose-fruit, the marble toes
Of the Greek beauties you brought
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Rosebud, knot of worms, Heir of the first five
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Begin by dipping your brush into clear light. Then syncopate a sky of Dufy-blue
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Sunlight strikes a glass of grapefruit juice, flaring green through philodendron leaves
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The ordinary milkman brought that dawn
Of destiny, delivered to the door
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Mud-mattressed under the sign of the hag
In a clench of blood, the sleep-talking virgin
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An old beast ended in this place: A monster of wood and rusty teeth.
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Clocks belled twelve. Main street showed otherwise
Than its suburb of woods : nimbus---
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'Tea leaves I've given up,
And that crooked line
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Through fen and farmland walking
With my own country love
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From fabrication springs the spiral stair up which the wakeful princess climbs to find
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It is a chilly god, a god of shades,
Rises to the glass from his black fathoms.
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Today we move in jade and cease with garnet Amid the ticking jeweled clocks that mark
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Gerd sits spindle-shaped in her dark tent,
Lean face gone tawn with seasons ,
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Grub-white mulberries redden among leaves.
I'll go out and sit in white like they do,
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The winter landscape hangs in balance now,
Transfixed by glare of blue from gorgon's eye;
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Anansi, black busybody of the folktales, You scuttle out on impulse
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Above whorled, spindling gorse, Sheepfoot-flattened grasses,
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