Pierced by the mist that fades away,Pierced by the mist that fades away,Or else, like us, sunk into some long gazeAre gliding toward me on the ice intoLeft and right, and far ahead in the dusk.They move against, or through, or by, or toward.This drizzling three-day January thaw,What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who standAnd then I go on until I am beneath an archway,Out of the road into a way acrossand the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,Rain. We are forced to fly,for a few weeks, statistics won't seemOne flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.Given by nature will soak into it.Shadows keep piling up as surfacesWhat? What can you do?