Away, my songs, must we go
More beautiful than anything in this world.
III. Chronology of Northern Exploration
Winds blow sharp, what then?
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
By trees—or might see as the masonry
Are muffled into silence that refuses
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Given by nature will soak into it.
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
The paths of childhood.
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
Blurring the terrain,
Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
More beautiful than anything in this world.
III. Chronology of Northern Exploration
Winds blow sharp, what then?
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
By trees—or might see as the masonry
Are muffled into silence that refuses
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Given by nature will soak into it.
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
The paths of childhood.
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
Blurring the terrain,
Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow
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