Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
The pain of being born into matter.
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
By the design of our own silent eyes
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Glimmering of light:
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
V. The Dutch in the Arctic
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
Summer bees were saying
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
The pain of being born into matter.
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
By the design of our own silent eyes
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Glimmering of light:
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
V. The Dutch in the Arctic
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
Summer bees were saying
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
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