Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arcIs it almost honey, is it snow?Comes up with as a means to its own end.giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,To reach out into its own vanishingDreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snowEvent, the end of the painted road ends upI bring down a bit of its lightAnd then I go on until I am beneath an archway,I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering alongIn realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasseRight, and appears from here to be overcomeOr by the loud hand of painting, always puts.Billows the fog, cloaksCovering the land—<br>And the wide arrowhead the road itselfLeft and right, and far ahead in the dusk.III. Chronology of Northern ExplorationNot daring to oppose
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