Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
III. Chronology of Northern Exploration
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
XIII. The Route to the North
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
And beyond, the same sound of bees
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
To pick up even the quickening of wind
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
III. Chronology of Northern Exploration
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
XIII. The Route to the North
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
And beyond, the same sound of bees
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
To pick up even the quickening of wind
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
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