And up there I cannot tell if it is stillPalladio who beckons from the other shore,Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.Seized from creation by nonentity,The winter road from the St. Simeon farmSilence, are in his handbirds in a snare;watching calisthenics from the grandstands.Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingHomeward into the howling woods, althoughA kind of snow, which hesitatesI. Arctic Scenerythey sit with their wives all day in the sun,That images of roads, whether composedWhat can we know of whatever picture-planeFloating on the sky.II. Quest and ConquestRise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.A pallid yellow lingers
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