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Never does any motion, sound, or light
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
Summer bees were saying
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
I bring down a bit of its light
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
IV. The Paths to Cathay
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Away from their profundity of surface.
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision