End of the comedy.
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Winds blow sharp, what then?
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Would their world not remain comfortably
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Onto my frozen fingers.
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Writhing their stunted limbs,
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
To a higher level of appearance.
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Away from their profundity of surface.
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Winds blow sharp, what then?
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Would their world not remain comfortably
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Onto my frozen fingers.
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Writhing their stunted limbs,
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
To a higher level of appearance.
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Away from their profundity of surface.
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
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