In the broken light, in owl weather,
Webs on the lawn where the leaves end,
I took the thin moon and the sky for
To pick the cat's brains and descendA weedy hill. I found him
Inside the summerhouse, a shadowed bulge,
Furred and somnolent.—"I bring,"I said, "besides this dish of liver, and an
Of cheese, the customary torments,
And the usual wonder why we
At all, and why the world thins out and
As it has done for me,
As I am toward silences.
Are we now? Do we know anything?"—Now, on another night, his look endures."Give me the dish," he said.
I had his answer, wise as yours.
