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Trampled snow is the only rose.
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
That only you and I can know. Les deux
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
He is harsh, dismal, ice�that is, exiled;
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
By the design of our own silent eyes
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Billows the fog, cloaks
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
From there. Toward . . .
Centimeters�that the height of the canvas