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And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
The line between the outside and this room
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
A pallid yellow lingers
As if your human shape were what the storm
Bronze the sky, with no
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Covering the land—
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
In a single floral stroke,
Is the moon to grow