The winter road from the St. Simeon farm In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars, In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous Floating on the sky. Standing in the way of the truth. A white It is as though I were at a second threshold. will come, blighting our harbingers of spring, and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk. M鋨e and P鋨e Chose are walking away from the That images of roads, whether composed And then I go on until I am beneath an archway, No name, no meaning. Oh my friends, Merely a mockery of spring Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow, Pierced by the mist that fades away, The pain of being born into matter. Thinking of your abiding spirit brings [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
