So, startled, quivering,Only a whiter absence to my mind,A frame of glided twilight—IToward the still dab of white that oscillatesBetween the vertex that the far-lit grayAlberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,That this mud draws on the stone.In a single floral stroke,Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who standIn the woods, close by,Yes. You'd want that said, (if youwith visors. Their brave recreational vehiclesOf observation lying on the groundDown the long course of the gray slush of thingsSummer bees were sayingThat rings, with faithful tongue, its pious noteIn Florida, it's strawberry season—<br>People might see to be the opening
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