And beyond, the same sound of bees
Cuts out of its width (81). Unfair
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
A matter of getting all that right . . .
A pallid yellow lingers
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Wheezing ravens, when
That patch of white at the very end of the road
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Cuts out of its width (81). Unfair
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
A matter of getting all that right . . .
A pallid yellow lingers
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Wheezing ravens, when
That patch of white at the very end of the road
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
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