Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastThe purest form is always the oneBefore those virile women!The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massedAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Unreadable from behind—they are well downShe stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeperSet on that tomb in the eternal night;Between the high and the low, in this night.But when, on the timepieces that we callAt San Biagio, in the most intense roomand the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,Come, swallows, it's good-bye.And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Of meaning like these—the world created byLife, or only joy, that stands outAllowing me to let your picture form and wakeOnly a fox whose den I cannot find.
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