Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
The face of a Quos ego),
Summer bees were saying
And so I gaze avidly
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Glimmering of light:
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
Where, as I discover as I go through
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
XVII. Greenland
To a higher level of appearance.
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
This perfection, this absence.
That this mud draws on the stone.
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
The face of a Quos ego),
Summer bees were saying
And so I gaze avidly
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Glimmering of light:
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
Where, as I discover as I go through
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
XVII. Greenland
To a higher level of appearance.
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
This perfection, this absence.
That this mud draws on the stone.
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
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