Map
by
THE shallow hills are marked in shades of coral.
The fields are silver-gray, a color of rain.
This is the land we mean to take tomorrow.
It is a level, uncomplex terrain.
The parallel, darker lines are roads, the curliest
Are little streams; the whole is scaled for distance.
We shall launch out at daybreak at the earliest.
We should encounter little or no resistance.
The fields are silver-gray, a color of rain.
This is the land we mean to take tomorrow.
It is a level, uncomplex terrain.
The parallel, darker lines are roads, the curliest
Are little streams; the whole is scaled for distance.
We shall launch out at daybreak at the earliest.
We should encounter little or no resistance.
Of all impersonal things, a map is coldest.
It does not tell us of the gullies where
Mushrooms grow thickest, or which elm is oldest,
Or where with spice wild marjoram clots the air,
Or where a woman for simple loneliness wept,
Or a hoy ran into the sun, or lovers slept.
It does not tell us of the gullies where
Mushrooms grow thickest, or which elm is oldest,
Or where with spice wild marjoram clots the air,
Or where a woman for simple loneliness wept,
Or a hoy ran into the sun, or lovers slept.