Academic journal article Chicago Review

Monument

Academic journal article Chicago Review

Monument

Article excerpt

going to pasture out of oneself at it,

yes, to all the deep and solid grounds,

there, our wandering has finally and of old become a ridge,

while all the same every hair will count

every blade of grass, painfully, again and again, in this stooping,

to be shorn over the ridge like a textile over a comb,

and far beyond that wings grow, hearing;

the furthest hills cross each other now and again,

soon here with the next step: as we pointed,

much vanishing and yet to be made out

in every dip, softly blooming

white to inspect at last through such a shirt!

the eye and the apple are constantly rolling out of you, into me,

thorny and hard to walk on, pierced and sharp, this place,

and it stays then flowing to have carried us over,

that the bands gleaming to far speak, also wound:

into which all the bridges vaporize or tilt upwards

comparatively hearty, heavens and tents,

pitching or beating each other,

while this torrent-over will have bedded me,

as it mattered to you there and on the spot,

feeling cloth and pulse so between snow and clouds,

and though dissolved on such a tongue, still to be there.

to fall too far from this bough and

yet jabbing fearfully near into our bones,

the buds are opening everywhere, all the shoots are high,

and not only with my breath from it;

at all the times the grasses will have

dulled themselves with the herds, and been chewed down at last,

where, to drive to the peak, to the pinnacle,

our hooves split into such feet,

pointing to themselves with fingers forests and the call inwards breed;

stormily higher as outwards to run up it,

we make for ourselves too the steam, this air,

before the haze so blue, the spyglass falling

or digging not just for a shovel,

as well fenced off and cultivated since of old;

that every piece of gravel blooming is always chopped off,

or every drop there was rapturously mowed,

as we had constantly jumped doubled

over blades or sheds, thus to fork path by path;

the corn will have been thrashed out of it truly and punctually,

the dust and this, its trail, bursting us,

for the safety of head and collar, out with it;

all the veins have me and you instead, and for the best,

stones or questions will be weighed out to us in heaps,

on the, out of the, full breast and with sack and pack:

just on the point of standing so stockstill,

the water had always been hard up to this neck,

whether this dark barrel has to be spooned out

with its whole bed or this, our dregs of it. …

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