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on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Merely a mockery of spring
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Yes. The obvious
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Seen. What you know is only manifest
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Over the chilly dale.
More beautiful than anything in this world.
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
(Our fortitude grows dim in
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.