Upon from the right by far trees, that white placeand the numbed yards will go back undercover.In the sound of the snow. What the countlessThis third day of our January thaw,Bronze the sky, with noAgainst which we have been projected? What . . .Event, the end of the painted road ends upOf a far barn, just where the road curves sharplyTo follow in the path of their brief blossomingTo reach out into its own vanishingThe bees are buzzing,That neither the motionless farm couple trudgingHe is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;Late February, and the air's so balmyI. Arctic SceneryBetween the vertex that the far-lit grayDim, and die tonight?Seen. What you know is only manifestEscapees from the cold work of living,
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