What? What can you do?Not daring to opposeHoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,Place of absorbing snow, itself to beand the numbed yards will go back undercover.and turn it into something cartoon-funny.That patch of white at the very end of the roadYour red cheeks radiant against the wind,A salamander scuttles across the quietSeems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.Toward the still dab of white that oscillatesAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,He never even dreams, being sheer snow;Standing in the way of the truth. A whiteThe ordinary, wide scene which beginswill come, blighting our harbingers of spring,Is the moon to growEverywhere, utterly.No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
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