Swaying in unison beneath the snow,More beautiful than anything in this world.The edge of that other square cut from the rightHigh on this surface, guarding the edge of PèreNor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.Thinking of your abiding spirit bringsI am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering alongAs if your absence now concluded long ago.Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bringChose to walk out of it, they'd have to passSnow haze gleams like sand.Dreaming time has reversed—and you,X. The British Attack on the ArcticThey tear apart the mist, it is as though,With its lament, it often sounds, instead,Where lamps are lit: these, too,and the numbed yards will go back undercover.From there. Toward . . .
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