It sift's from Leaden Sieves
It powders all the Wood
It fills with Albaster 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 to Rail
Till it lost in Fleeces
It deals Celestial Veil
To Stump, and Stack and Stem
A summer's empty Room
Acres of Joints , 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
It powders all the wood
It reaches to the fence
It ruffles wrists of posts
Metaphor
It fills with alabaster wood
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