Covering the land—
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
XIII. The Route to the North
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
Figures of light and dark, these two are walking
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
A matter of getting all that right . . .
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
That desire has ever built, have approached
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
Out of the road into a way across
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,