Over the chilly dale.Against this sky no longer of our world.What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,Against which we have been projected? What . . .Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,The winter road from the St. Simeon farmXVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the FramHe is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;Dim, and die tonight?Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,When Arctic winds crack down from CanadaI. Arctic SceneryThe flakes which have stolen onto the flagstonesEnd of the comedy.Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,So you can watch me watch uplifted snowBlurring the terrain,Trampled snow is the only rose.Where, as I discover as I go through