Tinsel in February, tinsel in August.

There are things in a man besides his reason.

Come home, wind, he kept crying and crying.

Snow glistens in its instant in the air,

Instant of millefori bluely magnified—

Come home, wind, he said as he climbed the stair—

Crystal on crystal until crystal clouds

Become an over-crystal out of ice,

Exhaling these creations of itself.

There is a sense in sounds beyond their meaning.

The tinsel of August falling was like a flame

That breathed on ground, more blue than red, more red

Than green, fidgets of all-related fire.

The wind is like a dog that runs away.

But it is like a horse. It is like motion

That lives in space. It is a person at night,

A member of the family, a tie,

An ethereal cousin, another milleman.