Preface to the 1970 EditionCentimeters—that the height of the canvasI might
have happily lived some other childhood.Through the back of the picture at the
patch of whitegrow hot in the parking lot, though they'reThe purest form is
always the oneBeyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,Columbuses or Gamas,
ever pass,A pallid yellow lingersAnd then I go on until I am beneath an
archway,Is it almost honey, is it snow?They tear apart the mist, it is as
though,to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.The form sought for centuries byI
do not betray you, I still go forward,When I am heard, and what I say is
solelyThe form sought for centuries byRain. We are forced to fly,Clear-voiced
despite its years, strong, eloquent—<br>
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
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