Billows the fog, cloaks—The place the road ends, that patch of white paintTo reach out into its own vanishingPartly stone, partly the absence of stone,The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,Along the walls are only empty niches,Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.IV. The Paths to CathayIn dense bare branches, or the ubiquitousOnly whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,In search of brighter green to come. No way!will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.