Never does any motion, sound, or light
Dismal, endless plain—
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Dismal, endless plain—
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Merely a mockery of spring
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
What is there in the depths of these walls
And piled up at the base of the columns
Out of the road into a way across
How can they get the point of how a world
As it sits there like an eventual
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Dismal, endless plain—
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Dismal, endless plain—
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Merely a mockery of spring
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
What is there in the depths of these walls
And piled up at the base of the columns
Out of the road into a way across
How can they get the point of how a world
As it sits there like an eventual
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
Homeward into the howling woods, although
No hay comentarios.:
Publicar un comentario