How many things are that have not,
Coming to themselves from an absence
In which the shells
Are still pure, mingled, Molly-eyed?
At Flanagan’s the country fair is still
Pure (fair child of the country,
The tips of flesh on rocks). Distant night --
Withheld in memory -- posited
Each object or returning over a sky
Like the sail-boat in a rapid
Moor: mirror what in which swans
Or ducklings or finches or a grue
Grow longer (not to speak of the shadow
Whose widening shores, advanced
Already bleary-eyed and dripping
Wrinkles cere, propound a watcher of the knight
In gulfs, clefts, that cozens and coves)
Along trespasses of waves
And skull-eyed skulks, the coals.
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