In a single floral stroke,
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
The pain of being born into matter.
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
Sought to contrive, intending to express
As if your human shape were what the storm
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
I know,
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
Late February, and the air's so balmy
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Yes. The obvious
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
The pain of being born into matter.
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
Sought to contrive, intending to express
As if your human shape were what the storm
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
I know,
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
Late February, and the air's so balmy
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Yes. The obvious
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
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