That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
In a single floral stroke,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
And off the white smoke swims
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Bronze the sky, with no
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
In a single floral stroke,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
And off the white smoke swims
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Bronze the sky, with no
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
