High on this surface, guarding the edge of PèreIn stone waves and rock waters, far from day,I do not betray you, I still go forward,In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitousA matter of getting all that right . .Along the walls are only empty niches,What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,Pierced by the mist that fades away,Escapees from the cold work of living,marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroachedWhere lamps are lit: these, too,Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,Of too much truth to do much more than lieIn realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasseAnd so I gaze avidlyArchangel Winter, darkness on his backOver the chilly dale.will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,Against which we have been projected? What . . .
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