To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake. No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,Dismal, endless plain—<BR> Point, after all, when finally one reachesThe winter road from the St. Simeon farm And so I gaze avidlyAnd he is swathed in ever-petrified dread; Thinking of your abiding spirit bringsAt the white place of the road's vanishing At four, the spectators leave in pairs, offEvent, the end of the painted road ends up Standing in the way of the truth. A whiteShadows keep piling up as surfaces Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly uponOh you builders, Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,Close at the end of distance the two Chose The mortal architect had brought to life,Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
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