... He's drest in canvas khaki, flannel shirt.
Laced boots for farming, chopping trees, perhaps;
A stocky frame, curtains of skin on cheeks
Drained slightly of their fat; gash on the neck
Where pus was emptied lately; one eye dim
And growing dimmer; almost blind in that.
And when he walks he rolls a little like
A man whose youth is fading, like a cart
That rolls when springs are old. He is a moose,
Scarred, battered from the hunters, thickets, stones;
Some finest tips of antlers broken off.
And eyes where images of ancient things
Flit back and forth across them keeping still
A certain slumberous indifference
Or wisdom, it may be...
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a p.303 b p.309
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a p.912
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