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The light pursues the shadow, and
The mariner, the sea,
And he that shaped the heavens shapes
The nothingness in me.

These seven starless years adrift
My mediocrity
Vouchsafe what lighted Gospel God
Will manifest to me.

Sand and verdant droplets mix
Upon my summer breast,
And under evening's gravity,
I rest.

What hopes! What dreams!
What silence!

The Spirit moves-over the wild-erness—
His hand never leaves the plow.

Licorice spitz within the slits
Will pericure the slants,
And when potatoes flatulate,
Palebriate the plants.

Oh, to be a somebody
Ideal, profound, and meek—
A silent mountain cataract—
A thin, prophetic creek.

Oh, to taste of glory—just
A taste! And then divest.
Perhaps not greatest wave, but great!
Perhaps a poet?
Perhaps the best?

I contend
With the surf,
And the moss,
And the desert sky—
Where silence speaks
And the stars preach sin
And mercy.

Woods and moon