He is the harsh, dismal, ice that is, exiled;
And the world skiffs rudderless, rolling on
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Life, or only joy, that stands out
In a single floral stroke,
In white, in paint too representative
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Blurring the terrain,
Everywhere, utterly.
Silence, are in his handbirds in a snare;
This third day of our January thaw,
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Billows the fog, cloaks
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
This third day of our January thaw,
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast