And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
The surge of swirling wind defines
The paths of childhood.
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Homeward into the howling woods, although
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Would their world not remain comfortably
Comes up with as a means to its own end.