In time enough the ferryman’s pulling arm Will beach his bent-bowed bark upon the sands Of yonder dark-masked land, and wave his hand– White-washed bone that flies a nightsilk shroud. So cross must I–and useless being cross– The sleepy rippling satin flood between Youth’s scattered hopes and the final result: An all-encircling, all enclosing web Which I as child to corpse have spun myself From these first golden threads. [AMW on October 22, 2016, 6:26pm, Tea And Poetry in DUMBO] … Continue reading America