And try to pour into an iron moldThe past's white fire, perishing with cold.
And out of iron's touch upon their palmsWill come a song.And they will seize stone hammers, make a clang,Sing as they never sang—Wild, assaulting, strong;(Clang, cold clang),Stone on stone, with iron bits,Clamped together, (Clang, clang),Iron twisted till it fits—Notched and jammed and bolted fast—Rearing heavily and slowOne monument against snow;A monument to last, a tomb to holdYellow pollen of all pastAgainst the cold.
Until, in the end, comes twilight glimmer.Voices, faces, motions dimmer,Breath as lowAs the all-covering snow;Even the evening and the morning laidCheek to cheek, will fade—
Radiance and sound made oneAnd quieted and blended into none.
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