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It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool The wrinkles of the road. It makes an even face Of mountain and of plain,— Unbroken forehead from the east Unto the east again. It reaches to the fence; It wraps it, rail by rail, Till it is lost in fleeces; It flings a crystal veil On stump and stack and stem,— The summer's empty room, Acres of seams where harvests were, Recordless, but for them. It ruffles wrists of posts, As ankles of a queen,— Then stills its artisans like ghosts, Denying they have been. |