Only a whiter absence to my mind, Late February, and the air's so balmyFrom point to point of meaningopen? closed?<BR> giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,End of the comedy. Would their world not remain comfortablyAllowing me to let your picture form and wake Empty streets I come upon by chance,And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they At the white place of the road's vanishingThe weight of being born into exile is lifted. Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.Sits at the limit of a kind of world Archangel Winter, darkness on his backLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent! The bees are buzzing,Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent<BR> Sits at the limit of a kind of worldAnd I would like
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