Four Sketches Page 2 The wells poisoned, crops salted over, Sky-silver brine seared on Saharan rock, That which is raised from us, leaving us fierce     and unmade. ii. The Countess Stands Before the     Remaining Headstones of the Vicarage     in Cornwall What honor is displaced In the treatment of these remains? Those formerly favored with lordship, Chevaliers and harsh rulers who watched Once over these drizzling hills and were gone Now face a surge of Atlantic depth, Soapy fall of sea's saliva Over exposed tombs, wearing At the coast where ruins were Long hemmed in by custodial soil - Encased beneath the heft and thrum of bells - Caskets rinsed clean and claimed by waves. "I pace out the boundary-lines of my own realm, That rainy domain that formed me and within     which I suffer," Where the ancient halls declined, Where cracked armor and beaten gold Were crammed into the sad earth, Interred and released, those of our kind,