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The Skier
How silently, and with a feather’s grace
He takes the blinding slopes of glittering ice,
Now swift, now slow, now curving left or right
Over the reaches of a world turned white,
A sweep, a sigh, a surge of ecstasy,
Downward, and on, a heart set suddenly free,
Leaping and flowing, patterned like a rhyme,
A bird of air, a moment loosed from Time . . .