Look there! On the height Of Ghost Mountain the sight Of the magus! Peremptory his walk Out from where He keeps his lair, Where you once came to talk. Maybe he had been calling For some time, longer than falling Took Milton's Satan dropped From the highest point down To visible darkest hell, Longer than it took Philip Roth to tell his book Would need some more ghostly power to tell The unnerved immolated self-devouring heart That this is what it would take For his career to really start -- This is what he would need If he wanted what he writes to really bleed! But now there is no speed At which the oncoming sorcerer Could come that might make you mistake Some uncoupled disaster's strike Of starlight cresting red harsh and white Over the top of that other hill For an auspicious order to fill -- You won't be fooled. For you have been schooled In proper temples still broken, Of which the snowstorm itself is the token. Its empty unceasing empties matters doctrinal. It says that no made bargain is final. It says that this far ahead, Where this much snow is shed, You need only shut the door and work. And so you turn and go -- Let him go get old and get buried in snow.
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