"Now it's my turn to sing!"
References
From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—
A kind of snow, which hesitates
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
This third day of our January thaw,
And I would like
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
And piled up at the base of the columns
In the woods, close by,
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.