souls under whom flow (mountain valley forest)
a million wheres which never may become
one (wholly strange;familiar wholly) dearest
more than reality of more than dream—
how should contented fools of fact envision
the mystery of freedom?yet,among
their loud exactitudes of imprecision,
you 'll(silently alighting)and 1’ll sing
while at us very deafly a most stares
colossal hoax of clocks and calendars
ee cummings