Gray the cloud-like oaks
Gray the cloud-like oaks
XVII. Greenland
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
To pick up even the quickening of wind
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Glimmering of light:
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
The purest form is always the one
But when, on the timepieces that we call
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Gray the cloud-like oaks
XVII. Greenland
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
To pick up even the quickening of wind
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Glimmering of light:
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
The purest form is always the one
But when, on the timepieces that we call
A kind of snow, which hesitates
No hay comentarios.:
Publicar un comentario