At the antipodes of poetry, dark winter,

When the trees glitter with that which despoils them,

Daylight evaporates, like a sound one hears in sickness.

One is a child again. The gold beards of waterfalls

Are dissolved as in an infancy of blue snow.

It is an arbor against the wind, a pit in the mist,

A trinkling in the parentage of the north,

The cricket of summer forming itself out of ice.

And always at this antipodes, of leaden loaves

Held in the hands of blue men that are lead within,

One thinks that it could be that the first word spoken,

The desire for speech and meaning gallantly fulfilled,

The gathering of the imbecile against his motes

And the wry antipodes whirled round the world away—

One thinks, when the houses of New England catch the first sun,

The first word would be of the susceptible being arrived,

The immaculate disclosure of the secret no more obscured.

The sprawling of winter might suddenly stand erect,

Pronouncing its new life and ours, not autumn’s prodigal returned,

But an antipodal, far-fetched creature, worthy of birth,

The true tone of the metal of winter in what it says:

The accent of deviation in the living thing

That is its life preserved, the effort to be born

Surviving being born, the event of life.