Floating on the sky.
A kind of snow, which hesitates
At these masses the snow hides from me.
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
Of Boyg of Normandy . .
End of the comedy.
And I would like
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
A pallid yellow lingers