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Rosenbloom is dead.The tread of the carriers does not haltOn the hill, but turnsUp the sky.They are bearing his body into the sky.
It is the infants of misanthropesAnd the infants of nothingnessThat treadThe wooden ascentsOf the ascending of the dead.
It is turbans they wearAnd boots of furAs they tread the boardsIn a region of frost,Viewing the frost.
To a chirr of gongsAnd a chitter of criesAnd the heavy thrumOf the endless treadThat they tread.
To a jabber of doomAnd a jumble of wordsOf the intense poemOf the strictest proseOf Rosenbloom.
And they bury him there,Body and soul,In a place in the sky.The lamentable tread!Rosenbloom is dead.
The MeasureWallace Stevens

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