. . . To pound the cliffs Like a sea? The chronic repeats, Feeding rubble of chalk into the salt, Might only make tomorrow turn inland —
Away from dealing with the sense I want to make,
And all delighted dealing of my sense.
* I have much need of cool declension, Generation of things in regular form. Give me a word to meet my little speech —?
The sound swims back unbroken: back from you, To meet me, marking time with nails on level tables.
Barnes & Noble
Find out more information on this title from the publisher.
Sign in with your Exact Editions account for full access.
Subscriptions are available for purchase in our shop.
Purchase multi-user, IP-authenticated access for your institution.
Register for digital access using your print subscription details.