Did someone draw them here before we came? Or was it just the sea?--We pore upon them, But find no answer--only suppositions. And if these perfect shapes are evidence Of immanent mind, it is but circumstantial: We never come upon him at his work, He never troubles us. He stands aloof-- Well, if he stands at all: is not concerned With what we are or do. You, if you like, May think he broods upon us, loves us, hates us, Conceives some purpose of us. In so doing You see, without much reason, will in law. I am content to say, 'this world is ordered, Happily so for us, by accident: We go our ways untroubled save by laws Of natural things.' Who makes the more assumption? If we were wise--which God knows we are not-- (Notice I call on God!) we'd plumb this riddle Not in the world we see, but in ourselves. These brains of ours--these delicate spinal clusters-- Have limits: why not learn them, learn their cravings? Which of the two minds, yours or mine, is sound? Yours, which scorned the world that gave it freedom, Until you managed to see that world as omen,-- Or mine, which likes the world, takes all for granted, Sorrow as much as joy, and death as life?-- You lean on dreams, and take more credit for it. I stand alone . . . Well, I take credit, too. You find your pleasure in being at one with all things-- Fusing in lambent dream, rising and falling As all things rise and fall . . . I do that too-- With reservations. I find more varied pleasure In understanding: and so find beauty even In this strange dream of yours you call the truth. Well, I have bored you. And it's growing late. For household news--what have you heard, I wonder? You must have heard that Paul was dead, by this time-- Of spinal cancer. Nothing could be done-- We found it out too late. His death has changed me, Deflected much of me that lived as he lived, Saddened me, slowed me down. Such things will happen, Life is composed of them; and it seems wisdom To see them clearly, meditate upon them, And understand what things flow out of them. Otherwise, all goes on here much as always. Why won't you come and see us, in the spring, And bring old times with you?--If you could see me Sitting here by the window, watching Venus Go down behind my neighbor's poplar branches,-- Just where you used to sit,--I'm sure you'd come. This year, they say, the springtime will be early. XI. CONVERSATION: UNDERTONES What shall we talk of? Li Po? Hokusai? You narrow your long dark eyes to fascinate me; You smile a little. . . . Outside, the night goes by. I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees . . . Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees.