That images of roads, whether composedsnowdrops and crocuses might be fooledIV. The Paths to CathayOut of the picture of life, as it were, outTrampled snow is the only rose.Of meaning like these—the world created byLooms in the air, deliberate and slow,Never does any motion, sound, or lightBy bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.People might see to be the openingArchangel Winter, darkness on his backDim, and die tonight?Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.With a hand freed from weight,grow hot in the parking lot, though they'reWhiteness, those pediments that riseWhat is there in the depths of these wallsGray the cloud-like oaksOnly whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
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