wolfe

james-

the honest world heals
the shores, they foam
and writhe like the old
portraits-

braddock fell upon the
barren foolish fields, you swiping an
uphand, your

uncommon frame to the
haughty irregulars-

and an acre or so-

it shows upon the dust of ancient
parchment, trips of poor shoes-

a weeping aide-

"oh great

animals, painting the wide plains with their
violet flowers, sprung from

the snapping gape of jaw-

the forged
expunging blood, spreading the seeds of new flowers"

and
be brave
my boys! ever ever
brave! the high white

city leers its prayered cliffs, they belong to our few poets,
the high white cliffs-

and the glorious papal lie-

here an inch of snow
an acre of trampled
snow and boot, unfurnished
horses, running,

screaming,

from the gouging eye of the embattled high
white-
cliffs.

and in spring those great bushels of lupine will twist about the marble encampments,
of those who may
remain