6T15M

Down the long course of the gray slush of things At the white place of the road's vanishingThe mortal architect had brought to life, One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitousWhat? What can you do? —The place the road ends, that patch of white paintAs if your human shape were what the storm But when, on the timepieces that we callCentimeters—that the height of the canvas visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atopPalladio who beckons from the other shore, But what I am looking at is hardened snow,Calling me to you with wild gesturings to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular"Be off!" say Winter's snows; His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled