Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
What? What can you do?
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Between the high and the low, in this night.
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
Rain. We are forced to fly,
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
Over the chilly dale.
Merely a mockery of spring