Calling me to you with wild gesturings
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
That this mud draws on the stone.
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
At the white place of the road's vanishing
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
That this mud draws on the stone.
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
At the white place of the road's vanishing
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
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