Back
out
of
all
this
now
too
much
for
us,
Back
in
a
time
made
simple
by
the
loss
Of
detail,
burned,
dissolved,
and
broken
off
Like
graveyard
marble
sculpture
in
the
weather,
There
is
a
house
that
is
no
more
a
house
Upon
a
farm
that
is
no
more
a
farm
And
in
a
town
that
is
no
more
a
town.
The
road
there,
if
you'll
let
a
guide
direct
you
Who
only
has
at
heart
your
getting
lost,
May
seem
as
if
it
should
have
been
a
quarry
—
Great
monolithic
knees
the
former
town
Long
since
gave
up
pretense
of
keeping
covered.
And
there's
a
story
in
a
book
about
it:
Besides
the
wear
of
iron
wagon
wheels
The
ledges
show
lines
ruled
southeast-northwest,
The
chisel
work
of
an
enormous
Glacier
That
braced
his
feet
against
the
Arctic
Pole.
You
must
not
mind
a
certain
coolness
from
him
Still
said
to
haunt
this
side
of
Panther
Mountain.
Nor
need
you
mind
the
serial
ordeal
Of
being
watched
from
forty
cellar
holes
As
if
by
eye
pairs
out
of
forty
firkins.
As
for
the
woods'
excitement
over
you
That
sends
light
rustle
rushes
to
their
leaves,
Charge
that
to
upstart
inexperience.
Where
were
they
all
not
twenty
years
ago?
They
think
too
much
of
having
shaded
out
A
few
old
pecker-fretted
apple
trees.
Make
yourself
up
a
cheering
song
of
how
Someone's
road
home
from
work
this
once
was,
Who
may
be
just
ahead
of
you
on
foot
Or
creaking
with
a
buggy
load
of
grain.
The
height
of
the
adventure
is
the
height
Of
country
where
two
village
cultures
faded
Into
each
other.
Both
of
them
are
lost.
And
if
you're
lost
enough
to
find
yourself
By
now,
pull
in
your
ladder
road
behind
you
And
put
a
sign
up
CLOSED
to
all
but
me.
Then
make
yourself
at
home.
The
only
field
Now
left's
no
bigger
than
a
harness
gall.
First
there's
the
children's
house
of
make-believe,
Some
shattered
dishes
underneath
a
pine,
The
playthings
in
the
playhouse
of
the
children.
Weep
for
what
little
things
could
make
them
glad.
Then
for
the
house
that
is
no
more
a
house,
But
only
a
belilaced
cellar
hole,
Now
slowly
closing
like
a
dent
in
dough.
This
was
no
playhouse
but
a
house
in
earnest.
Your
destination
and
your
destiny's
A
brook
that
was
the
water
of
the
house,
Cold
as
a
spring
as
yet
so
near
its
source,
Too
lofty
and
original
to
rage.
(We
know
the
valley
streams
that
when
aroused
Will
leave
their
tatters
hung
on
barb
and
thorn.)
I
have
kept
hidden
in
the
instep
arch
Of
an
old
cedar
at
the
waterside
A
broken
drinking
goblet
like
the
Grail
Under
a
spell
so
the
wrong
ones
can't
find
it,
So
can't
get
saved,
as
Saint
Mark
says
they
mustn't.
(I
stole
the
goblet
from
the
children's
playhouse.)
Here
are
your
waters
and
your
watering
place.
Drink
and
be
whole
again
beyond
confusion.
