By the design of our own silent eyesThe flakes which have stolen onto the flagstonesThat square—Oh, 56 x 56And off the white smoke swimsAppear to lift up from the lake;Astonished that you have returned to goThe flakes which have stolen onto the flagstonesOnly whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,Palladio who beckons from the other shore,And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;Away, my songs, must we goshortcake, waffles, berries and creamAmid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands blackIn Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretchingthen takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.As if your human shape were what the stormIt's snowing, it's returning to a townComes up with as a means to its own end.Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
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