Window

Intolerable the marching of this range

This fugue of sight unbroken and immense

In theme and counterpoint forever strange

Forever overflowing human sense.

Impose upon your lips the native game

Of undertruth, the minimum of awe.

At sunset when the snowsmoke drifts in flame

Say it is pretty, presently withdraw

From stern crescendos rising overlong.

And though the drive and rhythm of that ramp

Runs endless eastward resonant and strong,

Pull down the curtain, sit beside the lamp

Until the world within your eyeballs' arc

Rocks to its poise against the rushing dark.