When tracing new borders for the Middle East, br W.C., drunk, allowed his pencil to slip br And left a thirty-mile polyp on the br br Page that presses into Jordan to this day. br Traveling to the edge of the salient, br One finds only sand and dirty rock, wind. br br Sometime in the eighteenth century, a br Minor Russian administrator was br Sent to erect a boundary post on the br br Barren trail between Yekateringburg br And Tyumen to mark the division br Of Europe from Asia, one of many br br That have been drawn. Flakes of snow scattered the br Landscape, gleamed in fragile starlight, made the br Route indistinct. Bound in iron fetters, br br Tsarist exiles passing the frontier would br Kneel and fitfully scoop the last handfuls br Of European soil beneath colorless br br Winter sun. They crouched as long as they could, br Struggling not to cry, before being pushed forward, br Gazing into the sapphire dusk over br br The hills ahead. One observer wrote that br 'No other boundary in the world has seen br So many shattered hearts.' There was no return br br From that point, like crossing into the azure br Frost of Hades without a golden bough br To ensure retreat. One bitter morning, br br An Oxford professor, born in Russia, br Gazed out of his rain-spattered window at br Garden walls receding down a grey English br br Lane and thought of a tidal Europe, its br Borders rising and falling back in time. br For centuries vespers ascend and fall br br From cathedrals and cloisters, and sadly, br Announcing the familiar decline of br Day and light, mark limits and origins.