Cornfield stubble frozen,
From wretched elm skeleton
Gawking over yellow-gray ice of drowned grass.
When will we reach the mountains?
Mountain’s mass presses and molds
The land around into curve and fold and rise.
Birch and spruce tell me we have come.
No straight lines.
Here, it is easy to recline,
But never shall I rest;
I have yet to climb that mountain,
I have yet to pass the test.