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 Pole
To pick up even the quickening of wind
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
Cuts out of its width (81). Unfair
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
This third day of our January thaw,