At these masses the snow hides from me.
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
A frame of glided twilight—I
I know,
Blurring the terrain,
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Preface to the 1970 Edition
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
Everywhere, utterly.
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Covering the land—
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
A frame of glided twilight—I
I know,
Blurring the terrain,
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Preface to the 1970 Edition
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
Everywhere, utterly.
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Covering the land—
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