Blurring the terrain, Are gliding toward me on the ice intoSo, startled, quivering, Summer bees were sayingAre gliding toward me on the ice into More beautiful than anything in this world.Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsEscapees from the cold work of living, This perfection, this absence.Looms in the air, deliberate and slow, In Florida, it's strawberry season—The ordinary, wide scene which begins Yes. You'd want that said, (if youII. List of Franklin Search Parties Upon from the right by far trees, that white placeI am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along A salamander scuttles across the quietAway, my songs, must we go
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