long left for dead

Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
More beautiful than anything in this world.
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
Escapees from the cold work of living,
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
That desire has ever built, have approached
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
Dismal, endless plain—
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
What is there in the depths of these walls