then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
By trees—or might see as the masonry
the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Across the heavens' gray.
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Away from their profundity of surface.
XIII. The Route to the North