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Out of the picture of life, as it were, out—The place the road ends, that patch of white paintAs distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,Along the walls are only empty niches,And Mère Chose's square of world, even as theyXIV. Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the TegetthoffAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Reshaping magnified, each risen flakeHow bittersweet it is, on winter's night,Out of the road into a way acrossTo have been claimed by what we see of whatThe winged winds, captives of that age-old foeGrateful, I know, for just such compensations,And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Still has to be intoned, as in a lonelywith visors. Their brave recreational vehiclesOf observation lying on the groundWith sun's warmth wasted on a stone,Glimmering of light:

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