Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,Dismal, endless plain—Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
XX. To the PoleTo pick up even the quickening of windWith sun's warmth wasted on a stone,Come, swallows, it's good-bye.Cuts out of its width (81). UnfairIntroduction by Vilhjalmur StefanssonWill hear the storm-blast of his clarion.This third day of our January thaw,