Now speaks the icy air in violet trees
To me, that spread their range across the light;
Thick lashes they are of far-seeing eyes
That, meeting mine, perform the act of sight;
That sifts to the detail of frosted grass
Blades; while the slanting sun makes no heat bright;
A phantom summer, with no fields of flowers;
That all that's blank with nature somehow's right
With us; rare expedition fuels the glow
That energises, vocalises, breaks
The frost into faint steams; and words that flow
Bespeaking only timelessness that freaks
Out, measure of our lives; that all returns
To where it starts, and none the lesson learns. |