Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,The road, but not far enough ahead
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroachedBy the design of our own silent eyes
That neither the motionless farm couple trudgingEvent, the end of the painted road ends up
II. Quest and ConquestBetween the high and the low, in this night.
Across the heavens' gray.And I would like
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for deadHoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shapeIt's snowing, it's returning to a town
More beautiful than anything in this world.Away from their profundity of surface.
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
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