LXXXII.
There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.
Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are.
None may teach it anything,
'T is the seal, despair, -
An imperial affliction
Sent of us the air.
When it comes, the landscape listens
Shadows hold their breath,
When it goes, 't is like the distance
On the look of death.
Sacajawea Cemetery, near Fort Washakie, Wyoming.
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