White sky in the last light.
Imminence of trees.
Pale birch-clumps amid gray trunks of pine.

Black branchings on the white
remoteness. Tracework.
Visible clusterings, division of leaves.

Pale page of emptiness
on which some hand had scribbled
a message in impenetrable code—

for years he pondered it:
how to retrieve it,
how to redeem that last hope and despair.

Frederick Morgan

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 12 Number 2, on page 45
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