A land of leaning ice
by Harold Hart Crane
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