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The surge of swirling wind defines
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Blurring the terrain,
This perfection, this absence.In the sound of the snow. What the countless
To have been claimed by what we see of whatTo watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered questiongiddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Preface to the 1970 EditionFrom there. Toward . . .
Seized from creation by nonentity,Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.What? What can you do?
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and PèreToward . . . that seems to be the whispered question

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