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ISSUE:  Summer 1929

As I looked up the steep hillside To the beechwood comb along the ridge,
I saw the rich full moon upride Above the branching prongs.
Her edge Was brittle with the fingering frost.
The air was broken too; it cut My eyes, until the sight was lost—
The ridge, the wood, the lonely hut,
The moving sheep beneath the moon,
The little coil of cottage smoke I Even the vision in my mind Of someone waiting there within—
I lost that too; it lay, behind These knives of night, fine-tempered, thin;
Behind their lifted blades, steelblue,
That stabbed, and stabbed with icy stroke,
Freezing me inward, till I stood A statue in moonlight, blotting some stars,
Timeless, chipped with cosmic scars,
And fabulous to human blood.


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