of much commoner clay; a mere clod
a lot of here and there
sundry times, around
the world got slower
with a map
afraid of being laughed at. It was his conscience.
a sort of angry impatience, a uniformity of change
under the trees in the hay fields, with the same Latin grammar
And there was that geologist; he must have slipped one noon
puttering light in the leaves
styled in the ride; page one of Levell’d. Wood
sparing of words, yet by a condensation
and, strange to say, he went over the mountain this evening
planing away the surface
silly theory, in four columns
another puttering utpouring
the exhaust? that noise?
in some Minnesota pasapoplectic struggle, plover though it be
It does not get anywhere.