Over the chilly dale. The pain of being born into matter.Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the And so I gaze avidlyXXI. Flying in the Arctic Figures of light and dark, these two are walkingThinking of your abiding spirit brings Merely a mockery of springsnowdrops and crocuses might be fooled In white, in paint too representativeCascading snowflakes settle in the pines, To pick up even the quickening of windAmong us, only Alberti, then Sangallo, Of observation lying on the groundWith my foot the supple ball, for perhaps It is as though I were at a second threshold.To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake. A matter of getting all that right . . .Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
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