Page:Harmonium - Wallace Stevens.djvu/114

 Now, wry Rosenbloom is dead And his finical carriers tread, On a hundred legs, the tread Of the dead. Rosenbloom is dead. They carry the wizened one Of the color of horn To the sullen hill, Treading a tread In unison for the dead. Rosenbloom is dead. The tread of the carriers does not halt On the hill, but turns Up the sky. They are bearing his body into the sky. It is the infants of misanthropes And the infants of nothingness That tread The wooden ascents Of the ascending of the dead. It is turbans they wear And boots of fur