there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories.... Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.Out of the road into a way across Merely a mockery of springSeized from creation by nonentity, Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,So you can watch me watch uplifted snow In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitousThat neither the motionless farm couple trudging In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,Where lamps are lit: these, too, XXI. Flying in the ArcticClear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—<BR> In the sound of the snow. What the countlessArchangel Winter, darkness on his back This third day of our January thaw,A matter of getting all that right . . . Bronze the sky, with noPlace of absorbing snow, itself to be
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