One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
A pallid yellow lingers
Escapees from the cold work of living,
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
In a single floral stroke,
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question