Covering the land—<BR> Dim, and die tonight?Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question Beneath the snowflakes I notice façadesThis third day of our January thaw, Of Boyg of Normandy . . .Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air. Still has to be intoned, as in a lonelyBronze the sky, with no Onto my frozen fingers.Set on that tomb in the eternal night; Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shapeSilent patch of ultimate paint. You are Never does any motion, sound, or lightWould their world not remain comfortably That desire has ever built, have approachedAppear to lift up from the lake; The edge of that other square cut from the rightDreaming time has reversed—and you,
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