Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
My only thought is for what has
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
The purest form is always the one
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
This gap in time, this season not their own,
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Covering the land—
From there. Toward . . .