Seated at tables, we stumble through the fields,
Through stubble to a half-remembered station:
Familiar quays whose widening vistas yield
The harvested hills of former inspiration.
Rubble and weeds line the abandoned ledge;
Why should they cause nostalgia or regret?
Even now the quarried stones, deep set,
Hold in the grass some sought, unfathomable edge.
Seated at desks, we step out onto verges;
Walls fall away; the pilasters peel and sunder;
Flung from the grid, an inward course resurges,
And trackless are the slopes our reveries wander.