Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Blurring the terrain,
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
XX. To the Pole
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
By trees—or might see as the masonry
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Blurring the terrain,
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
XX. To the Pole
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
By trees—or might see as the masonry
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
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