I saw the spiders marching through the air,Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed dayIn latter August when the hayCame creaking to the barn. But whereThe wind is westerly,Where gnarled November makes the spiders flyInto the apparitions of the sky,They purpose nothing but their ease and dieUrgently beating east to sunrise and the sea;

We are all old-timers,each of us holds a locked razor.

And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.

Those blessed structures, plot and rhyme-- why are they no help to me now I want to make something imagined, not recalled?