Like some poor wounded wretchlong left for dead One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches. Only a fox whose den I cannot find.Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields The winged winds, captives of that age-old foeThis drizzling three-day January thaw, Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!And the wide arrowhead the road itself Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.Not daring to oppose That open before me? What I seethen takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches. Like theirs ends? From what distant point of visionA rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur. Where lamps are lit: these, too,and the numbed yards will go back undercover. Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly formIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
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