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Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past
And off the white smoke swims
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
XIII. The Route to the North
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—
By trees—or might see as the masonry
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
Everywhere, utterly.
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Covering the land—
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,