Page:Harmonium - Wallace Stevens.djvu/115

 As they tread the boards In a region of frost, Viewing the frost. To a chirr of gongs And a chitter of cries And the heavy thrum Of the endless tread That they tread. To a jangle of doom And a jumble of words Of the intense poem Of the strictest prose Of Rosenbloom. And they bury him there, Body and soul, In a place in the sky. The lamentable tread! Rosenbloom is dead.