and turn it into something cartoon-funny.The winter road from the St. Simeon farmWhen I am heard, and what I say is solelyPoint, after all, when finally one reachesAnd I would likeNot so much of place as of renewed hope,Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,Snow haze gleams like sand.Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,At these masses the snow hides from me.Dismal, endless plain—<br>I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering alongsnoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.As if your absence now concluded long ago.Upon from the right by far trees, that white placeI know,Of Boyg of Normandy . . .And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
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