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Shapeless, these two last,
While clearness's green leaf
Shapely bright and brief
Consummates their powers;
That the seen and unseen
Send into each other
One another's force,
Separated die
Quicker than cut fl owers --
As for what you write
(Rustles one old tree)
Why, Athene knows
Every poem goes
No matter at what height
Over rails of prose,
Length on length on length
Shoved by smoky strength
Straight and smooth and bright,
And the ugliness
Where the iron is mined
Of necessity
Has a dignity
She could not but bless
-- If she, brought to birth
by Hephaestus' axe,
Shouting her war cry,
And without a mother,
Were the blessing kind.
Such is what I heard
When the branches stirred
In their dialect;
Now I look around