Visit
Here the gray, shrouding chill,
A little gritted, a little grimed,
Wraps us, and beneath this hill,
At a time neatly timed,
Time breaks, obedient to the Will.
Between the railroad and the meadow,
Between the highway and the west,
Slopes this dull and spiky fallow,
Where only, and at last is rest;
From here, these need not to go,—
No more need know dispersal, not
Dull integration in the weave,—
Unborn at last, unbegot,
Not to fear, not to grieve
Longer by the world forgotten.
End? End, to all intent.
But yet the inference that I found,
Or seemed to find, as I bent
Long stare upon the secretive ground,—
This was the panther’s blandishment?