and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,XXI. Flying in the ArcticLooms in the air, deliberate and slow,Over the chilly dale.From point to point of meaningopen? closed?The pain of being born into matter.Writhing their stunted limbs,With a hand freed from weight,But snow has gathered there, has piled up,But when, on the timepieces that we callAnd the wide arrowhead the road itselfEverywhere, utterly.for a few weeks, statistics won't seemWind, sleet. The branches sway,Père and Mère Chose could be in conversationthe foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoonWith its lament, it often sounds, instead,End of the comedy.Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
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