This new snow seems to speak of virgins
With frail clothes made of gold,
Just as the old snow shall whisper
Of concierges in France.
The new dawn sings of beaches
Dazzling as sugar and clean as the clouds of Greece,
Just as the exhausted dusk shall sing
Of the waves on the western shore.
This new strength whispers of the darkness of death,
Of the frail skiff lost in the giant cave,
Just as in the boat nearing death you sang
Of feathers and white snow.
— Robert Bly, “Thinking of Wallace Stevens on the First Snowy Day in December,” Silence in the Snowy Fields: Poems. (Wesleyan University Press; 1st edition, April 15, 1962)