The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Is the moon to grow
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Before those virile women!
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
XII The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—
I know,
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
(Our fortitude grows dim in
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
Over the chilly dale.