Covering the land?br> 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?br> 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,