there, in the stupor of every living thing,
every wise wandering which
every calumping critter that
and merciless mouthing too—

there in my baldness shoo the rings
of living things: on and yon
and dare to frown upon some sate
a thing as heather crowned with dew—

but you? what track do you have
soled? what is it that you’ve told
calumpers, wanderers where—
a promise that you pray as dare?

i know these fiddling ferns!
the witch moss woke in grove!
and guilty pine what shrove a
crack or two—but you? but YOU?

methinks you’re a calumper too!—
a wide-mouthed, measly who
could think of nothing else to do
but shoo the rings of yon and on—

but ooo!—Traipser, tell us, do!—
who are you?