Untitled Fragment

And as the procession

before me fled one seemed to

know as one whose years the mask

and smokeless altars interpose

incessantly

numerous as the dead

from whose forms shadows

pass and

of that great crowd rearranged

the thrush and thrift and edelweiss: a

SHAPE whose garments in the changing

seasons as yet formless against

the trembling like the

lifting of a veil