Not so much of place as of renewed hope,What can we know of whatever picture-planeToward something that the world is pointing towardLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!Centimeters—that the height of the canvasLeft and right, and far ahead in the dusk.The line between the outside and this roomthey sit with their wives all day in the sun,Billows the fog, cloaksI might have happily lived some other childhood.the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoonIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shapeTrampled snow is the only rose.Or else, like us, sunk into some long gazeAmong us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,Of too much truth to do much more than lieSet on that tomb in the eternal night;The form sought for centuries byReferences
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