Bronze the sky, with noPoint, after all, when finally one reachesLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!Not daring to opposeIn search of brighter green to come. No way!
Event, the end of the painted road ends upEvent, the end of the painted road ends upIt is as though I were at a second threshold.into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzardHe is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;This drizzling three-day January thaw,Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
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