Archangel Winter, darkness on his back Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanOf a far barn, just where the road curves sharply A kind of snow, which hesitatesWant anything said at all, which I still doubt) Green lilac buds appear that won't surviveBut when, on the timepieces that we call Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend Point, after all, when finally one reachesSeen. What you know is only manifest And I would likeThe form sought for centuries by Place of absorbing snow, itself to beUpon from the right by far trees, that white place Palladio who beckons from the other shore,VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
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