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Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
In white, in paint too representative
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Bronze the sky, with no
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Not daring to oppose
Yes. The obvious
Scrawny wolves, and you,
With a hand freed from weight,
Toward something that the world is pointing toward