Are muffled into silence that refuses
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
XX. To the Pole
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Preface to the 1948 Edition
To have been claimed by what we see of what
The paths of childhood.
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Blurring the terrain,
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
In the woods, close by,
The pain of being born into matter.
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
A frame of glided twilight—I