2 de Agosto, 2007

Standing in the way of the truth. A white
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Given by nature will soak into it.
Not daring to oppose
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
XVII. Greenland
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
In the woods, close by,
Not daring to oppose
This third day of our January thaw,
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Escapees from the cold work of living,

 

 

Preface to the 1948 Edition
And so I gaze avidly
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
Billows the fog, cloaks
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Across the heavens' gray.
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Covering the land—
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Astonished that you have returned to go
From which, thanks to symmetry,
That images of roads, whether composed
XVII. Greenland

With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
At the white place of the road's vanishing
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
So, startled, quivering,
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
The bees are buzzing,
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage

 

Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
And piled up at the base of the columns
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
Dismal, endless plain—
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
I bring down a bit of its light
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
My only thought is for what has
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
In a single floral stroke,