XX. To the PoleCascading snowflakes settle in the pines,And the worldsskiffs rudderless, rolling on<BR>Everywhere, utterly.Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,Lucky the bellstill full and deep of throat,Like theirs ends? From what distant point of visionBy treesor might see as the masonryAbsurdly, my eyes can only see the arcThat neither the motionless farm couple trudgingOver the chilly dale.Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,That patch of white at the very end of the roadSits at the limit of a kind of worldWind, sleet. The branches sway,Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,Standing in the way of the truth. A whiteA frame of glided twilightI
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