It sifts from leaden sieves,
\nIt powders all the wood,
\nIt fills with alabaster wool
\nThe wrinkles of the road.<\/p>\n
It makes an even face
\nOf mountain and of plain, —
\nUnbroken forehead from the east
\nUnto the east again.<\/p>\n
It reaches to the fence,
\nIt wraps it, rail by rail,
\nTill it is lost in fleeces;
\nIt flings a crystal veil<\/p>\n
On stump and stack and stem, —
\nThe summer’s empty room,
\nAcres of seams where harvests were,
\nRecordless, but for them.<\/p>\n
It ruffles wrists of posts,
\nAs ankles of a queen, —
\nThen stills its artisans like ghosts,
\nDenying they have been.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"