Preface to the 1948 Edition
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
I seek, above all, in the wandering
Of observation lying on the ground
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Is the moon to grow
The surge of swirling wind defines
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
Beneath the snowflakes I notice fa�ades
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
The mortal architect had brought to life,
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
I seek, above all, in the wandering
Of observation lying on the ground
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Is the moon to grow
The surge of swirling wind defines
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
Beneath the snowflakes I notice fa�ades
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
The mortal architect had brought to life,
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
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