It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine,
Tugging at banks, until they
Bland belly-sounds in somnolent troughs,
That the air was heavy with the breath of these swine,
The breath of turgid summer,
Heavy with thunder's rattapallax,
That the man who erected this cabin,
This field, and tended it awhile,
Knew not the quirks of imagery,
That the hours of his indolent, arid days,
Grotesque with this nosing in banks,
This somnolence and rattapallax,
Seemed to suckle themselves on his arid being,
As the swine-like rivers suckled
While they went seaward to the sea-mouths.
