Are gliding toward me on the ice intoThat only you and I can know. Les deuxOnly whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,Gray the cloud-like oaksReshaping magnified, each risen flakeI am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering alongIn stone waves and rock waters, far from day,That patch of white at the very end of the roadWill hear the storm-blast of his clarion.From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—<br>A kind of snow, which hesitatesPierced by the mist that fades away,As if your absence now concluded long ago.Green lilac buds appear that won't surviveThe flakes which have stolen onto the flagstonesSo you can watch me watch uplifted snowAnd trumpet at his lips; nor does he castToward something that the world is pointing towardPère and Mère Chose could be in conversation
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