The Stars That Open And Shut Fall On My Shallow Breast Like Stars On A Pool. The Soft Wind, Blowing Cool Laps Little Crest After Crest Of Ripples Across My Breast. And Dark Grass Under My Feet Seems To Dabble In Me Like Grass In A Brook. Oh, And It Is Sweet To Be All These Things, Not To Be Any More Myself. For Look, I Am Weary Of Myself!