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["ursulina josefina" <emsutherland@lighthousejournal.com>]

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And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Covering the land?br> Of meaning like these—the world created by
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
The paths of childhood.
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Away, my songs, must we go
And so I gaze avidly
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
My only thought is for what has
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached


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