then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
that patch of white paint
A matter of getting all that right . . .
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be End of the comedy.
Given by nature will soak into it. Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
be in conversation
And half-starved foxes shake and paw like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
And then I go on until I am beneath anarchway,
Dismal, endless plain of meaning like these
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white, Still has to be intoned
as in a lonely