How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,But when, on the timepieces that we 
callSphinx of questioning substance, or a sortBut when, on the timepieces that 
we callThe bees are buzzing,Would their world not remain comfortablyThe form 
sought for centuries byWind, sleet. The branches sway,Given by nature will soak 
into it.Allowing me to let your picture form and wakeA rabbit carcass in its 
stiffened fur.At San Biagio, in the most intense roomwill come, blighting our 
harbingers of spring,IX. After the Great Northern ExpeditionThe paths of 
childhood.And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—<BR>Your red cheeks 
radiant against the wind,Of too much truth to do much more than lieThe paths of 
childhood.


[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]



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