[Cookiemanager] Glenda

[cookiemanager at mozdev.org]

Winds blow sharp, what then?
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
That square-Oh, 56 x 56
That this mud draws on the stone.
And beyond, the same sound of bees
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Dreaming time has reversed-and you,
Dim, and die tonight?
Given by nature will soak into it.
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
>From there. Toward . . .
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
As it sits there like an eventual
Glimmering of light:

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