O.

The O of a frost is not the center;

It is not where, if intruded upon,

The enclosive enemy would wish

To enter.

It is the oceanic constellation beyond

The cold Earthly wood,

--a piece of you would just as soon swim as watch,

Idealized by the inward traveling goer,

Branching out in oath and walk,

And decidedly through the shaded way

Of could.