In the quiet of the evening, through the little window
On the stairs going up he sees drink shops and gun-powder
In the amber air. Turning a corner in the street a mounted
Shadow like Grant or History on a horse that seems too big
Drapes blue about him like a cloak. Not the only agent, not the
Only patient in this universe; a hillside flares scarlet, then
Descent into black night: nothing beauteous, only danger.
And dizzy with success he sees himself cut out to achieve
Positions and spaces that have never been occupied.
The trees the grass the shore, whatsoever the taking of two paths
Being such that it always matters, these several empires
In their turn and, in their various fortunes, colourless,
Cleave to terror like magnetic plates. Ember days:
Illusion of a silver-and-powder world.
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