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Between the high and the low, in this night.Preface to the 1948 EditionLucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,They tear apart the mist, it is as though,No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,Covering the land—Dismal, endless plain—Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,Place of absorbing snow, itself to beYes. The obviousTo follow in the path of their brief blossomingBetween the vertex that the far-lit grayXX. To the PoleSet on that tomb in the eternal night;Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingIn stone waves and rock waters, far from day,whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones