XX. To the PoleXVII. GreenlandSeems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.XXI. Flying in the ArcticAnd the wide arrowhead the road itselfand the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,To run, as in the time of the bee, seekingThrough the back of the picture at the patch of whiteHis sightless eyes horribly watch the air;By what it seems to have moved toward. In anyOnly a whiter absence to my mind,Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,Whiteness, those pediments that riseMère and Père Chose are walking away from thesnowdrops and crocuses might be fooledOf observation lying on the groundHe terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.This third day of our January thaw,