The Barycenter Alpenglow ripening the mountain peaks Into rose-pink pyramids steeped in clouds. How this light, like a choir of silence, Queues in the air to sing the snowy ma** To shine, I don't know. And yet the chilled dusk, Remarkable and rude, runs rouge and glows As though the blue poem of the Earth desired, And became, the great rose poem of Heaven, With its champagne peaks and savage thickets And shrub and break and tangling bushes. The poem that revolves in two directions At once, circling us in two directions.