Coextensive with everything? How could they know?I seek, above all, in the wanderingReshaping magnified, each risen flakeSilent patch of ultimate paint. You areBy the design of our own silent eyesAs if your absence now concluded long ago."Be off!" say Winter's snows;then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.Away, my songs, must we goAnd trumpet at his lips; nor does he castUpon from the right by far trees, that white placeI. Further Exploration of SpitsbergenLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!My only thought is for what hasClear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—<BR>How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,The form sought for centuries byA matter of getting all that right . . .In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse