—And bulls—pale mountains,
blondweight—they have filled
—slow, still, secretly wild—
this summer, these fields. One,
chivvied pile, blanched lumberer,
treads a green land unobjecting—
torpid quicks, all-swallowing,

of a curd sea; dull billower,
wan gleamer, opacity. Or solid
as marble, emperor, unmistakeable
even from far, one sits, block
of pallor, hugeness of Carrara.
His eye, dawn-pink, half hid:
he is old chalk hills: meek, mad.