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And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
XIII. The Route to the North
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Billows the fog, cloaks
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Glimmering of light:
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
The pain of being born into matter.
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
Is the moon to grow
Dim, and die tonight?
Astonished that you have returned to go
A matter of getting all that right . . .
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back