How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Writhing their stunted limbs,
As if your human shape were what the storm
End of the comedy.
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
To reach out into its own vanishing
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Merely a mockery of spring
Between the high and the low, in this night.
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Dim, and die tonight?
IV. The Paths to Cathay
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Writhing their stunted limbs,
As if your human shape were what the storm
End of the comedy.
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
To reach out into its own vanishing
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Merely a mockery of spring
Between the high and the low, in this night.
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Dim, and die tonight?
IV. The Paths to Cathay
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