Perspective never withers from their eyes;   
They keep that docile edict of the Spring
That blends March with August Antarctic skies:   
These are but cows that see no other thing   
Than grass and snow, and their own inner being   
Through the rich halo that they do not trouble   
Even to cast upon the seasons fleeting
Though they should thin and die on last years stubble.

And they are awkward, ponderous and uncoy . . .   
While we who press the cider mill, regarding them
We, who with pledges taste the bright annoy   
Of friendships acid wine, retarding phlegm,
Shifting reprisals (til who shall tell us when
The jest is too sharp to be kindly?) boast
Much of our store of faith in other men
Who would, ourselves, stalk down the merriest ghost.

Above them old Mizzentop, palatial white   
Hostelryfloor by floor to cinquefoil dormer   
Portholes the ceilings stack their stoic height.   
Long tiers of windows staring out toward former   
Facesloose panes crown the hill and gleam   
At sunset with a silent, cobwebbed patience . . .   

See them, like eyes that still uphold some dream   
Through mapled vistas, cancelled reservations!

High from the central cupola, they say
Ones glance could cross the borders of three states;   
But I have seen deaths star