Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Preface to the 1948 Edition
In white, in paint too representative
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
Seized from creation by nonentity,
At the white place of the road's vanishing
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
The line between the outside and this room
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Preface to the 1948 Edition
In white, in paint too representative
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
Seized from creation by nonentity,
At the white place of the road's vanishing
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
The line between the outside and this room
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
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