Neither our vices nor our virtues br further the poem. “They came up br and died br just like they do every year br on the rocks.” br br The poem br feeds upon thought, feeling, impulse, br to breed itself, br a spiritual urgency at the dark ladders leaping. br br This beauty is an inner persistence br toward the source br striving against (within) down-rushet of the river, br a call we heard and answer br in the lateness of the world br primordial bellowings br from which the youngest world might spring, br br salmon not in the well where the br hazelnut falls br but at the falls battling, inarticulate, br blindly making it. br br This is one picture apt for the mind. br A second: a moose painted by Stubbs, br where last year’s extravagant antlers br lie on the ground. br The forlorn moosey-faced poem wears br new antler-buds, br the same, br br “a little heavy, a little contrived”, br his only beauty to be br all moose.