Morning Snow. (Prose)

Primordial of the language havocs the ghost, havocs the charring wood, as it hushes the daylight by the opaque fog above a motionless hillock, and I feel the strangeness of the fire arose from the bejeweled brooks, and faded, golden rivers, strung by the heat, I wander as the ocean meets the shore and I go into the peaks of the world, and its hoary, gentle winds during the Autumn pasture. It is the diamonds in the wood-pile, trembling with stones on the trail; It is everything to the piled snow. Dreams come, and sometimes, I miss them all the same. I go as the Autumn into the yellow roads, fairer than the stirred frost, fairer than her skin, and beyond the harvest of flowers by the morning snow.

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