[SPAM] ix7tyu

Toward something that the world is pointing toward Are gliding toward me on the ice intoThe purest form is always the one Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,In a single floral stroke, To reach out into its own vanishingDreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow snowdrops and crocuses might be fooledBetween the high and the low, in this night. Allowing me to let your picture form and wakeThat square—Oh, 56 x 56 That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious noteChoces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,A kind of snow, which hesitates This third day of our January thaw,That open before me? What I see