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 things
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
For any part of them we can make out
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
The face of a Quos ego),
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
The purest form is always the one
What? What can you do?
Is the moon to grow
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
From there. Toward . . .
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
That desire has ever built, have approached
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,