Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Rain. We are forced to fly,
This third day of our January thaw,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Away, my songs, must we go
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled