In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
IV. The Paths to CathayPoint, after all, when finally one reaches
XIII. The Route to the NorthClose at the end of distance the two Chose
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bringOf too much truth to do much more than lie
I seek, above all, in the wanderingBy trees—or might see as the masonry
Summer bees were sayingClear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—
Glimmering of light:And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Only a whiter absence to my mind,Toward something that the world is pointing toward
To follow in the path of their brief blossomingSits at the limit of a kind of world
Homeward into the howling woods, althoughWill sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
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