Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
Trampled snow is the only rose.
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Of observation lying on the ground
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
With a hand freed from weight,
From there. Toward . . .
Is the moon to grow
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Trampled snow is the only rose.
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Of observation lying on the ground
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
With a hand freed from weight,
From there. Toward . . .
Is the moon to grow
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
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