Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
XXI. Flying in the Arctic
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
He 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 along
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
The bees are buzzing,
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
A frame of glided twilight—I
Is 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 out
The paths of childhood.
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
This drizzling three-day January thaw,