His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Blurring the terrain,
Blurring the terrain,
Blurring the terrain,
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Everywhere, utterly.
And beyond, the same sound of bees
I know,
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Seized from creation by nonentity,
He is harsh, dismal, icethat is, exiled;
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
In white, in paint too representative
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Homeward into the howling woods, although
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
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