Although December's frost killed the winter crop, visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atopAnd the worldsskiffs rudderless, rolling on At four, the spectators leave in pairs, offIt's snowing, it's returning to a town Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharplyIV. The Paths to Cathay The road, but not far enough aheadA frame of glided twilightI Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snowThe place the road ends, that patch of white paint XIII. The Route to the NorthSide of the painting, the world of that wise, white, Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly uponThrough the back of the picture at the patch of white Right, and appears from here to be overcomefor a few weeks, statistics won't seem >From which, thanks to symmetry,on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft >caps
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