That was the first growth,the heir of all my minutes,the victim of every ramification-more and more it grew green, and gave too much shelter.And now at my homecoming,the barked elms stand up like sticks along the street.I am a foot taller than when I left,and cannot see the dirt at my feet.Yet sometimes I catch my vague mindcircling with a glazed eyefor a name without a face, or a face without a name,and at every step,I startle them. They start up,dog-eared, bald as baby birds.
-Robert Lowell
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