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‘Old Smoky’ when you sing with Peter, Lise,

Sometimes at night, and your small voices hover

Mother-and-son but sourceless, O yours over

The hesitating treble must be his,

I glide about my metamorphosis

Gently, a tryst of troubled joy—discover

Our pine-grove grown a mountain—the true lover

Soft as a flower, hummingbird-piercing, is.

I saw him stretch out farther than a wish

And I have seen him gutted like a fish

At hipshot midnight for you, by your side.—

Last night there in your love-seat, you away,

I sang low to my niece your song, and stray

Still from myself into you singing slide.