Preface to the 1948 Edition
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Unreadable from behind�they are well down
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Merely a mockery of spring
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
People might see to be the opening
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Unreadable from behind�they are well down
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Merely a mockery of spring
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
People might see to be the opening
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
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