Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
This perfection, this absence.
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
In the woods, close by,
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
I bring down a bit of its light
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
This perfection, this absence.
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
In the woods, close by,
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
I bring down a bit of its light
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
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