III.
"All afternoon my tears fell for Scott of the Antarctic.
All men have their secrets; this is one of mine.
For Scott the man, and those last words of his
Written in the final wind
'I do not regret this last journey; we took risks, we knew
We took them ...'" 1 can't go on. Already, Lydia is pacing
With that stare that foretells
A doom less kind than death. "Go on," she smiles, "let the tears
Fall to the end . . ." My eyes swim, 1 stagger, 1 say,
"'Things have come out against us; therefore, we have
No cause for complaint.'" Lydia laughs. 1 am angry.
"Who could say any more? This is nobility!
This is the courage that rails against nothing,
Accepting in the soul's Latin what has been given."
Lydia is deathly tonight, the moonlight lies along
Her arms like ice ... "Oh," she mocks,
"How men adore the classic types." Then, "I like the phrase,
'In the soul's Latin'." Then, "He had to say something.
Didn't he, out in the waste like that,
Stripped of everything but the hope
Of some poor idiot's tears ..." She is tired suddenly.
She sits down. "When will men understand, Fernando,
Nothing they say does not cheapen them–
Including what 1 have just said?"
Her eyes were so sad 1 was frightened .
"Clear these poems of all these words," 1 hear her say.
"Let the snow that is falling cover us and them,
