And so I gaze avidly
The winter road from the St. Simeon farmAt four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
From which, thanks to symmetry,Bronze the sky, with no
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he castWith a hand freed from weight,
It is as though I were at a second threshold.Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
By the design of our own silent eyesAnd the wide arrowhead the road itself
Never does any motion, sound, or lightA rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur