Toward something that the world is pointing towardIt's snowing, it's returning to a townTwo of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who standDim, and die tonight?My keyhole blows a galeI draw near to one of them, the lowest,will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,Wind, sleet. The branches sway,snowdrops and crocuses might be fooledWheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted"Be off!" say Winter's snows;Would their world not remain comfortablyAllowing me to let your picture form and wakeAlong the walls are only empty niches,Of observation lying on the groundSome stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,to try that, to hold a terrifying beastat balls hit again and again toward her offspring.Summer bees were saying
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