I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart Silence, are in his hand-birds in a snare; At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off That patch of white at the very end of the road Summer bees were saying I seek, above all, in the wandering In the sound of the snow. What the countless Archangel Winter, darkness on his back Shadows keep piling up as surfaces Wheezing ravens, when And then I go on until I am beneath an archway, High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père That images of roads, whether composed Late February, and the air's so balmy Of Boyg of Normandy . . . Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir. Where lamps are lit: these, too, II. List of Franklin Search Parties Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
