One of our great poets is sunk in his reputation, because he could never forgive any conceit which came in his way; but swept like a drag-net, great and small. There wasplentyenough, butthedisheswereill-sorted; whole pyramids of sweetmeats, for boys and women; but little of solid meat for men.
A brackish reach of shoal off Madaket--The sea was still breaking violently and nightHad steamed into our North Atlantic Fleet,When the drowned sailor clutched the drag-net. LightFlashed from his matted head and marble feet,He grappled at the netWith the coiled, hurdling muscles of his thighs:The corpse was bloodless, a botch of reds and whites,Its open, staring eyesWere lustreless dead-lightsOr cabin-windows on a stranded hulkHeavy with sand.robert lowell
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