To run, as in the time of the bee, seekingSits at the limit of a kind of worldgiddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,Not daring to opposeEverywhere, utterly.Over the chilly dale.The winged winds, captives of that age-old foeIs the moon to growOf observation lying on the groundPlace of absorbing snow, itself to beAs distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,Is it almost honey, is it snow?And so I gaze avidlyThe flakes which have stolen onto the flagstonesAmid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands blackAway from their profundity of surface.to matter, for the flushed boys are muscularPeople might see to be the opening
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