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VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
The pain of being born into matter.
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
The face of a Quos ego),
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Oh you builders,
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
Merely a mockery of spring
So, startled, quivering,
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.