But if, after so many droning days, 
You try to imagine a quiet country 
Under the soft crush of the tide, 

Cold, cold … 
In the end it began to snow 
Mercifully, like bandages 

No, nothing is asleep in this demesne 
      Of scrub pine, washed-out oak; the wet 
           Intrudes on every cache, 

Love in a maze destroyed his force
Regretting free and sunny days.
He mastered compass, chart and course

On the hottest day of the year I rode the mail
To Waterloo Strand and Seaside Macedon
Where, tanned like Egyptians in their Louis-Quatorze

City air makes a man free 
To cut his own throat or that
Of his neighbor across the way.