To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
Covering the landó
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Bronze the sky, with no
Homeward into the howling woods, although
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
Preface to the 1970 Edition
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
XXI. Flying in the Arctic
As if your human shape were what the storm
The form sought for centuries by
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
That open before me? What I see
Escapees from the cold work of living,
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,