Observations placeholder

In the lowlands I have no comrade, not even the lone man’s friend
Down there they are dubious and askance; there nobody thinks as I,
But mind-chains do not clank where one’s next neighbour is the sky

In the towns I am tracked by phantoms having weird detective ways
Shadows of beings who fellowed with myself of earlier days;
They hang about at places, and they say harsh heavy things –
Men with a wintry sneer, and women with tart disparagings

Down there I seem to be false to myself, my simple self that was,
And is not now, and I see him watching, wondering what crass cause
Can have merged him into such a strange continuator as this,
Who yet has something in common with himself, my chrysalis

I cannot go to the great grey Plain; there’s a figure against the moon
Nobody sees it but I, and it makes my breast beat out of tune;
I cannot go to the tall spired town, being barred by the forms now passed
For everybody but me, in whose long vision they stand there fast