Precise Grotesques*
Mr. Robinson, Laconic Analyst, Is Once More Too Much At Ease With Nemesis
The Book.
Where the long shadows of the wind had rolled,
The wheat was yielding to the change assigned,
And as by some vast magic undivined
The world was turning slowly into gold;
Like nothing that was ever bought or sold
It waited there, the body and the mind,
And with a mighty meaning of a kind
That tells the more the more it is not told.
So in a land where all days are not fair,
Fair days went on until another day
A thousand golden sheaves were lying there,
Shining and still, but not for...
