Given by nature will soak into it.
A kind of snow, which hesitates
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Yes. The obvious
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
Of meaning like these—the world created by
That images of roads, whether composed