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—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint Scrawny wolves, and you,Preface to the 1970 Edition Through the back of the picture at the patch of whiteThat rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note XX. To the PoleAbsurdly, my eyes can only see the arc Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet paintedSnaps of ice cracking in the hidden air. As if your absence now concluded long ago.The road, but not far enough ahead Escapees from the cold work of living,Across the heavens' gray. Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly formIn the dread circle hemmed by glaciers, A matter of getting all that right . . .Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion. Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,Dreaming time has reversed—and you,