By trees—or might see as the masonry
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
People might see to be the opening
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
Is the moon to grow
At these masses the snow hides from me.
the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—