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<DIV align=left><FONT face=Arial size=2>The purest form is always the one<BR>
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply<BR>Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.<BR>
End of the comedy.<BR>The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe<BR>
Preface to the 1948 Edition<BR>Covering the land—<BR>
Is it almost honey, is it snow?<BR>Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,<BR>
That patch of white at the very end of the road<BR>Everywhere, utterly.<BR>
Oh you builders,<BR>Wind, sleet. The branches sway,<BR>
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast<BR>Snow haze gleams like sand.<BR>
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.<BR>Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort<BR>
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,<BR>Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black<BR></FONT></DIV>
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