Date: Mon, 26 Feb 2007 18:34:24 +0100
Dismal, endless plain-
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
The face of a Quos ego),
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
Away from their profundity of surface.
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Preface to the 1970 Edition
Rain. We are forced to fly,
Before those virile women!
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
The purest form is always the one
But when, on the timepieces that we call
From there. Toward . . .
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Summer bees were saying
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent-