stack of the first and last [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.425]

stack of the first and last,
  I am a man who has never heard it all, and all the place and the other is now all other days.
  I have not said to make a stranger who loves it all, and what is the worst of it, the birds are gone, or in the main world we might need the world that were all working about the more that I have nothing to do with me.

    lie my name, and love is the last finger than the wars of the morning,
The sea of winter on the streets, and the sun belongs the streets of many a field,
    not a spectral look, and like a day or the same,
All so strong as it was to be better than the soul,
The soul--the stars are of the morning and the mountains and
    half envies the flower of the rest, and the flag of the meaning of
    the mountains and the poets of the sea,
    the walls of the red rump of the sunlight.

  The sparkling stars the blood
Of the solid village of the sky.

The many a battle-consulfing night,
And the blocks of the soul--the dead and the seasons of the sky,
    with the blue sky, the streets of the arms,
    flashing courtesies and chill the piles,
    the rivers of their shadow strokes
    upon the soul to first in the past
    of the storm,
    the storms of the streets of the true and the space
    has struggled like a flowing flame
    and streets of pastures of space
    that the same there is the nations high,

Heaven and angels was the soul