The Angle of a Landscape

The Angle of a Landscape
That every time I wake
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack

Like a Venetian waiting
Accosts my open eye
Is just a Bough of Apples
Held slanting, in the Sky

The Pattern of a Chimney
The Forehead of a Hill
Sometimes a Vane’s Forefinger
But that’s Occasional

The Seasons shift my Picture
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake to find no Emeralds
Then Diamonds which the Snow

From Polar Caskets fetched me
The Chimney and the Hill
And just the Steeple’s finger
These never stir at all

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The Angle of a Landscape