And the wide arrowhead the road itself
The paths of childhood.
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Across the heavens' gray.
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Of meaning like these—the world created by
Homeward into the howling woods, although
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Seized from creation by nonentity,
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Astonished that you have returned to go
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Away from their profundity of surface.
Writhing their stunted limbs,
Dismal, endless plain—
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,