There are some men that focus
on the true intentness, as I know
and wouldn't argue with: it is
violent, the harp - I will not do it
though, and the time is
so gentle, in the shadow
that any youth might
sleep. But I will
not do it, with the gilded harp
and of all things, its pedals, for
the nice touch. As the curves too
are sometimes gentle, where we shall be
in the succession of
light, hope, the
evening
distracts: and it is always too
fine, too hopeless and will not let
the gentle course - by the chance
rise of a voice.
And if the intentness
is the more true, then
I want the gentler
course, where
the evening is more of what we are:
or the day as well - moist, casual,
broken by inflictions of touch. This
is the resting-place, out in the street.
That we are so, and
for the other thing
I will not do it, will
not; this is a quiet day.