The line between the outside and this room
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Blurring the terrain,
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
Covering the land—
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
Dismal, endless plain—
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Blurring the terrain,
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Blurring the terrain,
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
Covering the land—
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
Dismal, endless plain—
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Blurring the terrain,
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
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