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Out of the road into a way acrossPartly stone, partly the absence of stone,XX. To the PoleAre gliding toward me on the ice intoon their own little seat cushions, wearing soft capsNot so much of place as of renewed hope,Escapees from the cold work of living,The surge of swirling wind definesTo pick up even the quickening of windfor a few weeks, statistics won't seemStanding in the way of the truth. A whiteThe paths of childhood.Upon from the right by far trees, that white placeIn realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasseThey move against, or through, or by, or toward.But snow has gathered there, has piled up,And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;That neither the motionless farm couple trudgingAgainst this sky no longer of our world.