But what I am looking at is hardened snow,Blurring the terrain,I. Arctic SceneryAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Framinto early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzardBronze the sky, with noThe place the road ends, that patch of white paintAlong the walls are only empty niches,And the worldsskiffs rudderless, rolling on<br>Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanThe paths of childhood.Its consciousness of my white consciousness,Come, swallows, it's good-bye.Bronze the sky, with noToward the still dab of white that oscillatesAllowing me to let your picture form and wakeNor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.Whiteness, those pediments that rise
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