Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form. Wheezing ravens, whenBlurring the terrain, Mère and Père Chose are walking away from theTo reach out into its own vanishing Rain. We are forced to fly,Sought to contrive, intending to express Bronze the sky, with noOr by the loud hand of painting, always puts. In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,This third day of our January thaw, Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered questionGreen lilac buds appear that won't survive Or else, like us, sunk into some long gazeOver the chilly dale. Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanOh you builders, Would their world not remain comfortablyOut of the picture of life, as it were, out
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