into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard Along the walls are only empty niches,Green lilac buds appear that won't survive The ordinary, wide scene which beginsDismal, endless plain—<BR> No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,To follow in the path of their brief blossoming Allowing me to let your picture form and waketo matter, for the flushed boys are muscular Writhing their stunted limbs,With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered questionGreen lilac buds appear that won't survive I might have happily lived some other childhood.A kind of snow, which hesitates With its lament, it often sounds, instead,the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
