Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, Even
where horrible green parrots call and swing. My
works are all stamped down into the sultry mud. I
knew that horse-play, knew it for a murderous thing. What
wholesome sun has ripened is wholesome food to eat, And
that alone; yet I, being driven half insane Because
of some green wing, gathered old mummy wheat In
the mad abstract dark and ground it grain by grain And
after baked it slowly in an oven; but now I
bring full-flavoured wine out of a barrel found Where
seven Ephesian topers slept and never knew When
Alexander's empire passed, they slept so sound. Stretch
out your limbs and sleep a long Saturnian sleep; I
have loved you better than my soul for all my words, And
there is none so fit to keep a watch and keep Unwearied eyes upon those horrible green birds. |
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