and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired menSnow haze gleams like sand.One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night airIn the sound of the snow. What the countless—The place the road ends, that patch of white paintTo mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and PèreXIV. Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the Tegetthoffgrow hot in the parking lot, though they'reChoces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsTo a higher level of appearance.Gray the cloud-like oaksHigh on this surface, guarding the edge of PèreOf too much truth to do much more than lieIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shapeThat only you and I can know. Les deuxCovering the land—Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,That only you and I can know. Les deux
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