What can we know of whatever picture-planeXI. Franklin's Last VoyageDreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snowThe flakes which have stolen onto the flagstonesHe is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,At these masses the snow hides from me.Although December's frost killed the winter crop,Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzardand turn it into something cartoon-funny.Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.Rain. We are forced to fly,Sits at the limit of a kind of worldLeft and right, and far ahead in the dusk.Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,Mère and Père Chose are walking away from theSummer bees were sayingSuddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,