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Transitional Poem
Again, what of this glassWhereby the formulæOf sense should all be solved?It cannot enlarge a fleaNor accurately defineThe features of a star.Gazing through it I sawNothing particularDistant or close. A summerAccident it wasExplained its property.It is a burning-glassWhich interrupts the sunTo make him more intense,And touch to a single flameThe various heap of sense.
33
Seventeen months agoWe came to the mine on the moor. A crowSees more than meets the eye—What marrow in fleshless bones may lie.And now I passed by a forbidding coastWhere ironworks rustOn each headland: goats crop the salted grass:Steam oozes out of the mud. Earth has
