You were always a stray and grating
Stiff-necked lot, I am sure of it; graceless,
And nothing loose about your hands.
Great ones at vanishing, some all the time,
Bearing little but grudges; though some
Relieved by violence; each one lost in the end
Without maps, in the niggard unlovely
Waste he had found for himself, sick of it,
Wondering where else there was to go.