Along the walls are only empty niches,
Thinking of your abiding spirit bringsPreface to the 1970 Edition
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,That patch of white at the very end of the road
When Arctic winds crack down from CanadaIX. After the Great Northern Expedition
The winter road from the St. Simeon farmBy what it seems to have moved toward. In any
A salamander scuttles across the quietEvent, the end of the painted road ends up
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanThe purest form is always the one
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,Preface to the 1948 Edition
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,And half-starved foxes shake and paw
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzardOf meaning like these—the world created by
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