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white river poems 313
How distantly beautiful,
I thought, this country is; how
in it I am far from it,
small to it and gigantic
and remote too, to myself --
being far from where I live,
And from Meeker. Seeing things.
-- Saw mountains, rather the tips
of a range, like blue crystal
behind the brink of the dun
of the plain: for the young light,
the one kind of light that shines
in this country, seemed shining
less on them than into them.
-- Saw the stillness of the plain
that, this time of year, after
the abrasions of winter,
looked like an old pelt, dimmed, worn,
dropped casually and lying
in folds that being natural
have an unemphatic grace --