Stunned in their voiceless way to be aliveAbsurdly, my eyes can only see the arcArchangel Winter, darkness on his backDismal, endless plain—To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Writhing their stunted limbs,Blurring the terrain,VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His BayXXI. Flying in the ArcticAnd the wide arrowhead the road itselfLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!Dismal, endless plain—Right, and appears from here to be overcome