I might have happily lived some other childhood.
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
My only thought is for what has
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Snow haze gleams like sand.
And I would like
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Covering the landó
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
From which, thanks to symmetry,
That this mud draws on the stone.
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
IV. The Paths to Cathay
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
I. Arctic Scenery
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse