Have I read you right? But the human face--the human face at the top of the fullest sheet of print holds more, withholds more. Now, eyes open, she looks out; and in the human eye--how d'you define it?--there's a break--a division--so that when you've grasped the stem the butterfly's off--the moth that hangs in the evening over the yellow flower--move, raise your hand, off, high, away. I won't raise my hand. Hang still, then, quiver, life, soul, spirit, whatever you are of Minnie Marsh--I, too, on my flower--the hawk over the down--alone, or what were the worth of life?