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And by abrasive forcings raked
Against itself, it had ascended.
And yet below me sixty feet
A well of air stood dark and sweet
Over clean boulders and a spring.
And I descended through a ripple
Of upper leaves, till noticing
That a rock pattern had grown supple,
And whirred, I quietly backed off .
I have considered you enough.
The rattle stopped; the rigid coil,
Rustling, began to fl ow; the head,
Still watching me, swayed down to crawl,
Tilting dead leaves on either side.
You in the adventitious there,
Passion, but passion making sure,
Attending singly what it chose
And so condemned to lie in wait
Stilled in variety -- to doze
Or wake as seasons fl uctuate,
Eyes open always, the warm prey
At best but happening your way.
And I too slowly found a stone
To break your spine; and I have known
That what I will have surely spoken
Abides thus -- may be yet thus broken.