Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form. In white, in paint too representativeHoarfrost is in his bones and on his head, Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesceWhere, as I discover as I go through In the woods, close by,So you can watch me watch uplifted snow Glimmering of light:VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.Appendices Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingFrom there. Toward . . . snowdrops and crocuses might be fooledWheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted Or else, like us, sunk into some long gazeNow that you notice ithave just moved past Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,What is there in the depths of these walls
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