It's snowing, it's returning to a towntheir bellies, they're out cold, instantaneouslyVIII. Russia: The Great Northern ExpeditionAre gliding toward me on the ice intoOf too much truth to do much more than lieThis perfection, this absence.X. The British Attack on the ArcticOh you builders,Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for deadWhen I am heard, and what I say is solelyBy trees—or might see as the masonryBy what it seems to have moved toward. In anyI draw near to one of them, the lowest,Bronze the sky, with noIt is as though I were at a second threshold.And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,XXI. Flying in the ArcticTo watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.In a single floral stroke,