Unhitched from time’s yoke
He has forever to build
The slow kingdom

A Myth of Cheshire.

Galahad set forth unarmed
empty-handed along his way

His tome cast to plunge and fade to subtle worth
In precious fragments faint, he paused to glean

How dimly in winter attends to the heart
That teeming season of our out-bloomed prime,

A woman hangs her laundry on a line
On Saturday, in rancid clinging heat,