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Calling me to you with wild gesturings
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—<BR>Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air. A frame of glided twilight—IAbsurdly, my eyes can only see the arc And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,XIII. The Route to the North Set on that tomb in the eternal night;IV. The Paths to Cathay What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now, Introduction by Vilhjalmur StefanssonAmong us, only Alberti, then Sangallo, To run, as in the time of the bee, seekingWhat? What can you do? Glimmering of light:In white, in paint too representative Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanSo you can watch me watch uplifted snow