Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
The line between the outside and this room
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
Preface to the 1970 Edition
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
Blurring the terrain,
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
The line between the outside and this room
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
Preface to the 1970 Edition
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
Blurring the terrain,
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
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