By trees—or might see as the masonry
Summer bees were saying
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
In the woods, close by,
Blurring the terrain,
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
My only thought is for what has
Glimmering of light:
Glimmering of light:
I seek, above all, in the wandering
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Summer bees were saying
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
In the woods, close by,
Blurring the terrain,
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
My only thought is for what has
Glimmering of light:
Glimmering of light:
I seek, above all, in the wandering
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
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