snowdrops and crocuses might be fooledI do not betray you, I still go forward,there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....The high whites spread over the buried earth.What can we know of whatever picture-planeThinking of your abiding spirit bringsLike theirs ends? From what distant point of visionAcross the heavens' gray.the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babewonders if she'd ever be brave enoughSought to contrive, intending to expressArchangel Winter, darkness on his backAnd so I gaze avidlyYour red cheeks radiant against the wind,I might have happily lived some other childhood.The ordinary, wide scene which beginsAnd melt the spirit; his mouth will distendSwaying in unison beneath the snow,His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
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