shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
That images of roads, whether composedScrawny wolves, and you,
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands blackLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,In Florida, it's strawberry season—<BR>
By trees—or might see as the masonryinto early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
End of the comedy.So, startled, quivering,
The road, but not far enough aheadLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Seen. What you know is only manifestBut when, on the timepieces that we call
And the wide arrowhead the road itselfLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
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