To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.I do not betray you, I still go forward,Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsToward the still dab of white that oscillatesFor any part of them we can make outOh, I know. The snow. The effective snowThe face of a Quos ego),The winged winds, captives of that age-old foeThe purest form is always the oneWhat? What can you do?Is the moon to growSo you can watch me watch uplifted snowFrom there. Toward . . .And melt the spirit; his mouth will distendThat desire has ever built, have approachedPealing, it tries to fill the cold night airLucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzardSide of the painting, the world of that wise, white,