Stay where ideas are underground.
The pure essence is a green willow slip.
As a snake slumbering under the mountains.

He came thus to Europe, caught
in the legacy of his grandfathers
the looks of his bony aristocratic woman

When snow like sheep lay in the fold
And winds went begging at each door‚
And the far hills were blue with cold,

As you look up at me and think you know
That in the light of now I’m such and such—
This light has been relinquished long ago.

The eye must follow form, but from this height,
    I see how softly summer parries weight

The sun hangs on the blistered rock,
The Jew hangs in the sun;
The clamorers are done

John was the writer tell me
who was John
                                  Brother

When snow like sheep lay in the fold
And winds went begging at each door‚
And the far hills were blue with cold,

Supremest fictions grow with fungus speed,
The drunk by lies, the diver knows by art
The blurry wrecks made fairy-tale with weed.

     You are not random picked. I tell you you
     Are much like the one I knew before, that died.
     Shall we sit down, and drink and munch a while