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The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
XIII. The Route to the North
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Are muffled into silence that refuses
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Out of the road into a way across
Floating on the sky.
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
The road, but not far enough ahead
Between the high and the low, in this night.
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
By the design of our own silent eyes
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply