The house will crumble and the books will burn. And yet she too is dissolved, she is destroyed.
She makes that gentler that can gentle be. It is the mother they possess, Who gives transparence to their present peace. Only the half they can never possess remains, Still-starred. They are together, here, and it is warm, With none of the prescience of oncoming dreams. The mother's face, The purpose of the poem, fills the room. He observes how the north is always enlarging the change, With its frigid brilliances, its blue-red sweeps And gusts of great enkindlings, its polar green, The color of ice and fire and solitude. The man who is walking turns blankly on the sand. The long lines of it grow longer, emptier, A darkness gathers though it does not fall And the whiteness grows less vivid on the wall. Here, being visible is being white, Is being of the solid of white, the accomplishment Of an extremist in an exercise. The wind is blowing the sand across the floor. The flowers against the wall Are white, a little dried, a kind of mark Reminding, trying to remind, of a white That was different, something else, last year Or before, not the white of an aging afternoon, Whether fresher or duller, whether of winter cloud Or of winter sky, from horizon to horizon. It is white, As by a custom or according to An ancestral theme or as a consequence Of an infinite course. We saw in his head, Black beaded on the rock, the flecked animal, The moving grass, the Indian in his glade.
His meditations in the ferns, When he moved so slightly to make sure of sun, Made us no less as sure. This is his poison: that we should disbelieve Even that. In another nest, the master of the maze Of body and air and forms and images, Relentlessly in possession of happiness.
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