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Nocturne of the Self-Evident Presence

Fortunate,
Being inarticulate,
The Alps
Rise
In ice
To heights
Of large stars
And little;
To courts
Beneath other courts
With walls of white starlight.
They have stars for pavement,
The valley is an area,
And I a servant,
A servant of servants,
Of metaphysical bereavements,
Staring up
Out of the gloom.

I see no immaculate feet on those pavements,
No winged forms,
Foreshortened,
As by Rubens or Domenichino,
Plashing the silvery air,
Hear no cars,
Elijah’s or Apollo’s,
Dashing about
Up there.
I see alps, ice, stars and white starlight
In a dry, high silence.

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