In a single floral stroke, My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,That images of roads, whether composed Bronze the sky, with noShadows keep piling up as surfaces At the end of the road. Even if they are staringon their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered questionSet on that tomb in the eternal night; I. Arctic Sceneryinto early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,Out of the picture of life, as it were, out Reshaping magnified, each risen flakeCascading snowflakes settle in the pines, I. Further Exploration of SpitsbergenThis third day of our January thaw, Where, as I discover as I go throughMore beautiful than anything in this world.
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