From which, thanks to symmetry,
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
Over the chilly dale.
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
Glimmering of light:
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
A frame of glided twilight—I
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Bronze the sky, with no
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
The paths of childhood.
The form sought for centuries by
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
Over the chilly dale.
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
Glimmering of light:
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
A frame of glided twilight—I
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Bronze the sky, with no
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
The paths of childhood.
The form sought for centuries by
