Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Dismal, 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 Bay
XXI. Flying in the Arctic
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Dismal, endless plain—
Right, and appears from here to be overcome