But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
In the woods, close by,
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
Summer bees were saying
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
By trees—or might see as the masonry
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,