Out of the road into a way acrossSummer bees were sayingTraces of those deep cuts lie thickly uponThrough the back of the picture at the patch of whiteBy trees—or might see as the masonryThe edge of that other square cut from the rightI do not betray you, I still go forward,and the numbed yards will go back undercover.Escapees from the cold work of living,Life, or only joy, that stands outSet on that tomb in the eternal night;Toward . . that seems to be the whispered questionOh you builders,That only you and I can know. Les deuxmarked with a dark stroke from the left, encroachedTo listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,Appear to lift up from the lake;To reach out into its own vanishingAnd then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
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