when the deep shadows
of the matter in the sky should
be as active as virtue,
and all the enemies of this world
have been doubly grievous,
there is the cry of an aged
trapper, a name pronounced
in solemn silence.

i have seen forts taken and lost.
i have been overlooked.

the house is a widow, consisting
more of dread than of
poems’ relief to feelings.

there is a proper beginning
in the dawn; it amounts to
a woman wrecked, a new
direction to that narrow and
vulgar acrimony of morals,
acts of valour and
the victories of death.