Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
Away from their profundity of surface.
And so I gaze avidly
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Given by nature will soak into it.
Scrawny wolves, and you,
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
Of meaning like these—the world created by
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
That images of roads, whether composed
And Mère Chose's square of world, even as they
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be