Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
By the design of our own silent eyes
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
I know,
The bees are buzzing,
Blurring the terrain,
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Yes. The obvious
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
By the design of our own silent eyes
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
I know,
The bees are buzzing,
Blurring the terrain,
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Yes. The obvious
