3 de Agosto, 2007

the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
The purest form is always the one
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
Would their world not remain comfortably
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Of meaning like these—the world created by
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Snow haze gleams like sand.
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye

 

 

 

With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
Preface to the 1948 Edition
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
In a single floral stroke,
Against which we have been projected? What . .
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
Floating on the sky.
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
That only you and I can know. Les deux
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,