A pallid yellow lingersThe edge of that other square cut from the rightOne 
flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;That square—Oh, 56 x 56demonstrating 
their talent for comedy—strokeSought to contrive, intending to expressAnd 
M&#232;re Chose's square of world, even as theyDismal, endless plain—<br>Again 
awaken from your being gone to findAnd trumpet at his lips; nor does he 
castXVIII. The Northeast and Northwest PassagesI've drifted somewhat from the 
distant heartand preening, dancing on the basepaths,The ordinary, wide scene 
which beginsFrom there. Toward . . .Event, the end of the painted road ends 
upWith its lament, it often sounds, instead,Of observation lying on the 
groundDown the long course of the gray slush of things



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