With its lament, it often sounds, instead, With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps In search of brighter green to come. No way! My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair, Scrawny wolves, and you, In the woods, close by, For any part of them we can make out In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along What? What can you do? snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form. Life, or only joy, that stands out And half-starved foxes shake and paw Covering the land?BR> I might have happily lived some other childhood. >From there. Toward . . . Seen. What you know is only manifest Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
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