Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
Away, my songs, must we goThe winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly uponIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Preface to the 1948 EditionDeep in the fog that quenches every ray,
I seek, above all, in the wanderingThis drizzling three-day January thaw,
the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoonXVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingHe never even dreams, being sheer snow;
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,In Florida, it's strawberry season—<BR>
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.The high whites spread over the buried earth.
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