Angle Of Geese

How shall we adorn Recognition with our speech?— Now the dead firstborn Will lag in the wake of words. Custom intervenes; We are civil, something more: More than language means, The mute presence mulls and marks. Almost of a mind, We take measure of the loss; I am slow to find The mere margin of repose. And one November It was longer in the watch, As if forever, Of the huge ancestral goose. So much symmetry!— Like the pale angle of time And eternity. The great shape labored and fell. Quit of hope and hurt, It held a motionless gaze Wide of time, alert, On the dark distant flurry.