Fog

Since the city is stifled it appears

The hour thrust beyond the gloom at. . .

I have begun to sense your presence

In this heath of gorse

And hyacinths and an endless fog; Or the wilted

Branches have laid the road,

Unraveling in this wasteland of memory.

As an echo traces back

To the supplicating mourner.

And traitorous in the grey risen

Rain words are,---

The lone answer veiled in knowing.

I am to assimilate myself to obscurity—

The ravaging and the threshing,

And a desolate forest, petrified, begotten

By the man who sought to be triumphed over.

Tear and torn

(Once more the besetting storm,

Glorious annihilation!) but for once more.

When the fear has been encouraged

Uneclipsing as a city

Is honest.

There, gasp after fiery gasp, an immodest grief

Is softened to faithful composure,---

Birch-white spirits dance among the skeletons

And drink till drunkenness the tide of twelve.

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