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Coast Hillside The Mondays must be lovely where you are. All week and weekends crowds throng halls and gardens, The rooms hung with the works of art you choose, That you know best and love, though not your own But theirs, who see or not see, as they can. Now, in the quiet of their absence, you, Hearing the bronze peristyle fountain plash, Will turn, perhaps, outside your office, glance Down marble corridor, past fluted columns, And see me standing where I last saw you, Where we talked of the kouros’ radiant poise. Here, wild-oat fields unfold in planes of gold— Of green-gold, white-gold, dun, drying to gray— Down to the shore, where the Pacific, placid, Misted and massive, shines with the same milk-blue That you, if you should turn again and walk Out to the sunlit balcony, might view. Seeing the same sea, I, who love, see you.  You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...

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