Nobody can repair day with a luminary's effort,
Shadows can't lift up the Immersion covers.
Earth is in the winter force all over,
Smoke can't make straight the bended houses.
The buns of lanterns and pies of roofs,
With a black colour over the white in snow -
The cant of penthouse: it's a manor house,
I'm - the gouverneur in it, alone,
I've sent my pupil to sleep. I'm waiting nobody.
But the portiere - is closed tightly. The trottoir
Is all in knobs, the porch - is full of snow.
Memory - don't bristle! Accrete with me totally.
Believe in and assure me, that we are - one form.
Again you're about her? I'm not thrilled.
Who'd opened her a time? Showed her a slot?
That shock - was the origin. To other things,
By her grace, I'm not tied now. The trottoir - in waves,
Between the snow flexures - the frozen bottles
Of the naked, black ice-floes. The puns of lanterns,
On the chimney, as an owl in furs - the offish smoke.
1913, 1928