Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who standAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Bronze the sky, with noAnd so I gaze avidlyOf the matter of snow here. Both of us have graspedSummer bees were sayingXVII. GreenlandComes up with as a means to its own end.Standing in the way of the truth. A whiteAt the white place of the road's vanishingThe surge of swirling wind definesWrithing their stunted limbs,visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atopFigures of light and dark, these two are walkingA pallid yellow lingersSeen. What you know is only manifestAnd off the white smoke swimsmarked with a dark stroke from the left, encroachedSilent patch of ultimate paint. You are
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