A land of leaning ice
Hugged by plaster-grey arches of sky,
Flings itself silently
"Has no one come here to win you,
Or left you with the faintest blush
Upon your glittering breasts?
Have you no memories, O Darkly Bright?"
Cold-hushed, there is only the shifting moments
That journey toward no Spring —
No birth, no death, no time nor sun
by Hart Crane
This text is linked to:
Lecture Notes no. 9
Lecture Notes no.12