look at him there on the wet road,
muffled with smoke, an old man trying
time's treacherous ice with a slow foot.
tears on his cheek are the last glitter.
on bare branches of the long storm
that destitute as a tree stripped
of foilage under a bald sky.
come, then, winter, build with your cold
hands a bridge over those depths
his mind balks at;let him go no,
comfident skill; let the hard hammer
of pain fall with as light a blow
on the brow'sanvil as the sun does now
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