What can we know of whatever picture-plane
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
He 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 blizzard
and 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 world
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
Summer bees were saying
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,