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It sifts from Leaden Sieves-
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road-

It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain-
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again-

It reaches to the Fence-
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces-
It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack-and Stem-
A Summer's empty Room-
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them-

It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen-
Then stills its Artisans-like Ghosts-
Denying they have been-