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<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,<BR>
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,<BR>
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .<BR>
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson<BR>
Glimmering of light:<BR>
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,<BR>
The line between the outside and this room<BR>
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—<BR>
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any<BR>
What can we know of whatever picture-plane<BR>
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?<BR>
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question<BR>
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees<BR>
My only thought is for what has<BR>
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc<BR>
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,<BR>
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings<BR>
Are muffled into silence that refuses<BR>
Oh you builders,<BR></DIV></BODY></HTML>