Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands blackXXI. Flying in the ArcticXIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort SeaHe is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;What? What can you do?Escapees from the cold work of living,I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering alongToward something that the world is pointing towardThe bees are buzzing,That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious noteA frame of glided twilight—IIs the moon to grow"Be off!" say Winter's snows;By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.For any part of them we can make outThe paths of childhood.Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,This drizzling three-day January thaw,