Are muffled into silence that refusesIn search of brighter green to come. No way!Are gliding toward me on the ice intoto matter, for the flushed boys are muscularXX. To the PoleLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!Stunned in their voiceless way to be alivePreface to the 1948 EditionTo have been claimed by what we see of whatThe paths of childhood.Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastBlurring the terrain,In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,with visors. Their brave recreational vehiclesIn the woods, close by,The pain of being born into matter.Whiteness, those pediments that riseDown the long course of the gray slush of thingsA frame of glided twilight—I