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IV. The Paths to Cathay
Toward something that the world is pointing towardWhere does this all end? What is the vanishing That square—Oh, 56 x 56and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars, Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharplyArchangel Winter, darkness on his back Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arcBut what I am looking at is hardened snow, Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snowTo follow in the path of their brief blossoming End of the comedy.Grateful, I know, for just such compensations, Winds blow sharp, what then?To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows, Gray the cloud-like oaksThe form sought for centuries by