Bruce

And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
Is the moon to grow
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision
Is the moon to grow
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Are muffled into silence that refuses
And so I gaze avidly
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
What is there in the depths of these walls
Before those virile women!
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Out of the road into a way across
Where, as I discover as I go through
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
And up there I cannot tell if it is still